


Right Hook

by synonym4life



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Blow Jobs, Boxing, Brooklyn, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mouth Kink, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, because let's face it you can't NOT have a mouth kink when it comes to Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym4life/pseuds/synonym4life
Summary: “I’m taking you down to Ivan’s Gym on Saturday,” Bucky says. He lifts his hand to shut Steve up as soon as he notices Steve is about to interrupt. “I’m not taking no for an answer here, Steve. You might be the stubborn one out of the pair of us, but I ain’t backing down on this. If you’re gonna fight, you’re at least gonna learn how to punch properly.”“I can punch,” Steve counters.Bucky levels him with a flat stare. He doesn’t need words to say; if you knew how to punch you wouldn’t be looking likethat.A 1940s fic wherein Bucky decides it's high time for Steve to learn how to throw a proper punch so he takes him to a boxing gym. Feelings ensue!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 107
Kudos: 248





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny, humble 1940s fic that I just had to write. I actually got the idea for it from the Captain America movies, where, as soon as Steve wakes up, he goes to box the shit out of a punching bag. So I figured it would have been Bucky who taught Steve to box. Of course, it's still more a love story than a boxing fic. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Note:
> 
> a) all I know about boxing is what I learned from one website of dubious quality  
> b) this is mostly a happy feel-good fic so I tried to keep the angst to low levels  
> c) I dont' know if I wholly succeeded with low-level angst as chapter 3 is a bit more heart-wrenching *sweat smile*

The back of Steve’s head is pounding as he makes his way down his street. It’s Sunday morning and, judging by the way the sun hangs in the sky, the mass at St Barbara’s Parish must have ended, and some people are already trickling down the street back to their homes. Steve keeps to the emptier side of the road where fewer people are passing. Unfortunately, Rasping Chester never goes to mass, and, in his own words, prefers to honor the Lord by observing the world He made from the stairs in front of his tenement. Chester barely ever leaves the stairs if the weather is good. A cloud of smoke always hangs around him, barely ever a moment without a cigarette dangling from his mouth. 

Rasping Chester is a permanent fixture of Bushwick avenue. Steve is convinced he knows every single person in Bushwick well enough that he’d be able to draw a family tree for them. Another permanent fixture is a pack of Chesterfields in his hands — Rasping Chester smokes at least four packs a day. Unsurprisingly, that’s why he’s called Chester. That’s also why he rasps too. His real name is Wyatt, but no one’s ever called him that except for his wife and even she gave up after a while. 

Not only does Chester have the advantage of knowing every single person on the street; he knows all the gossip too and gossip in Bushwick gets shared faster and more effectively than even Jesus shared his bread. Steve is fairly sure the gossip reaches more ears than the bread did mouths, too, and a lot of it is due to Chester’s inability to keep his mouth shut. 

“Rogers boy,” Chester, predictably, rasps.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Chester,” Steve nods his head, trying to hide his bruised cheek as best as he can. 

“Got a whooping again, I see.” Chester laughs then coughs wetly. 

Steve has to admit that it’s kind of hard not to notice that he got beaten up when there is caked blood in his hair and the side of his mouth has swollen so much that his greeting came out muffled. 

“Gotta show ‘em, right?” Steve says with a shrug of his shoulders, his usual response to Rasping Chester’s usual question. Chester laughs harder, his entire wrinkled face wobbling. Steve smiles too and tilts his head in goodbye. Chester’s coughs echo behind him. 

Hoping he won’t meet anyone else, Steve hurries to his building, where his hopes promptly evaporate upon seeing another familiar figure lounging on the stairs. As soon as he sees him coming, Bucky gives a lazy wave. Sitting on the second to lowest step, legs spread wide and a cigarette in hand, he is a perfect mirror of Rasping Chester if Chester was fifty years younger, and his face didn’t look like a lumpy potato, and his whole personality was nothing like it is. Steve concludes there is actually nothing similar to Bucky and Chester bar their love of stairs and lounging.

Bucky’s easy demeanor vanishes as soon as Steve comes close enough for him to get a good look at him. Steve stops a way off, shifting on his feet while his eyes skitter over Bucky’s darkening face. 

“Steve.” 

“Don’t.”

“ _Steve._ ”

“ _Don’t._ ”

Bucky glares at him for a few hard seconds. when Steve doesn’t say anything, he glares harder. “You come home murdered one day, I’m gonna kill you all over again.” 

“Good luck with that.” Steve shrugs awkwardly.

“I’ll kill your ghost, I swear by God I will.” Bucky gets up in one swift motion. It’s a testament to how angry he really is that his cigarette burns away between his thumb and forefinger, forgotten. He walks closer because Steve refuses to, in order to hide how badly his cheek is bruised. Bucky exhales. 

“Jesus fuck, Steve.” He drops the cigarette to the floor and lifts his hand as if to touch Steve’s face, maybe turn it to the side in order to inspect the damage, but changes his mind mid-way. He lets it hover in the air before huffing and dropping it. “What’s your excuse this time?”

Steve shrugs and, before Bucky can get another word in, turns and jogs up the stairs, fishing the key out of his pocket. He’s fairly sure Bucky is throwing his hands up behind him.

“It was nothing, right? It was nothing again?” Bucky presses when he pushes himself past the door after Steve. Steve grumbles something unintelligible and takes the stairs. 

“You literally just like getting punched at this poin —” He cuts himself off. His steps quicken. He catches up with Steve right when Steve is pushing a key into the lock of his apartment. “Is that blood in your hair? Tell me that’s not blood in your hair.” Bucky grabs Steve by the shoulder probably to get a good look at his scalp, but Steve shrugs him off, opening the door and rushing inside. Bucky is right on his heels.

“Oh my god, it is isn’t it? It’s blood.” Bucky closes the door behind him a bit too forcefully. The vase (without flowers) on the shelf next to it shakes. “For fuck’s sake. You got your head cracked open again.”

“Leave off it, Barnes.” Steve doesn’t often call Bucky _Barnes_ , but he sure makes a point to do it when he’s annoyed. 

“Don’t you Barnes me.” Bucky takes in a deep breath, obviously trying to force his voice to come out calm. “What if you have a concussion? What if it gets infected?” 

Steve shrugs noncommittally. He wishes Bucky didn’t worry about him so much. He’s more panicky than his Ma ever was. 

Once Bucky realizes anger won’t budge Steve, he exhales and turns to — and in Steve’s opinion this is so much worse — pleading. “Listen Steve, you can’t keep doing this, come on, pal. And don’t try telling me it was for some noble reason either. You’ve been so... _stupid_ ever since — ever since. Listen, I know it’s fucking hard, but this isn’t gonna make anything better.” 

He lets the rest of the sentence — _ever since your ma died_ _—_ hang in the air between them.

Steve moves his gaze away from Bucky’s damned eyes. Bucky looks...he looks lost. And Steve instantly feels guilty. Guilty for causing worry to the only person in this world who still cares about him. Guilty because he doesn’t know if he can ever do better, be better. He takes the few steps to the kitchen, turning the tap on to wash his hands. Bucky takes in another breath to start talking again.

“Buck, please,” Steve stops him. “My head is pounding. Don’t. Not right now.”

Bucky is quiet while Steve scrubs his hands. “Fine,” he says when Steve is rinsing the soap from his forearms. “Let me at least help you with that crack at the back of your head. You won’t be able to reach it well.”

Steve wants to argue at first, familiar stubbornness stomping its heavy feet. He quells the desire to snap at Bucky and instead nods sharply, angling himself so that he’s standing to the side of the sink, making space for Bucky next to him. Bucky steps up and brushes his hair aside gently. 

Bucky always touches so, so gently. It used to annoy Steve to no end, having thought it’s because Bucky thinks he’s frail or weak or something. Then one day he realized Bucky doesn’t touch him gently because he thinks less of him, but because he thinks _more_ of him. Bucky touches him gently because he _wants_ to and that is somehow a hundred times worse.

“Maybe we should go to the bathroom?” Bucky asks completely oblivious to the fact that Steve has to close his eyes to collect himself after Bucky’s knuckles graze the back of his neck. 

“The light’s better here,” Steve says. He hopes Bucky ascribes the thickness of his voice to the pain. 

The truth is — and Steve’s never really denied it to himself — that Bucky’s touch wakes something in him. Something he’s known forever, but tried not to dwell on too much. It’s simple. It’s terrifyingly easy. It’s not even surprising; Steve’s been in love with Bucky Barnes since he found out there was love and then there was _in_ love.

Well, to be completely honest, the first time he found out about _in_ love, when he was five years old and asking his Ma why people put their lips on other people’s lips, he was disgusted. Until one day, years later, when Bucky and him went for a hard-earned (with home chores) cone of ice cream and Steve pushed Bucky’s cone in his nose and Bucky looked at him with fake fury in his eyes, nose smudged and the side of his mouth tugging up involuntarily, that a wild thought flashed through Steve’s mind. He didn’t have time to dwell on it because Bucky pushed him over onto the grass telling him what a stupid little punk he was, and Steve was too preoccupied with giggling to care. Still, the fact remained that Steve, as it turned out, wasn’t too opposed to the thought of his lips touching other lips, as long as the second pair belonged to Bucky. 

So Steve was in love with Bucky but there wasn’t really anything he could do about it either. He knew it wasn’t normal, not really, but he also didn’t think it was weird. It wasn’t weird to be in love with Bucky Barnes because how could he _not_ be? Everyone who knew Bucky was in love with him at least a little bit and Steve knew Bucky best, so how could anyone expect him not to be the most stupidly, deeply, recklessly in love. 

“Okay.” Bucky parts Steve’s hair, shaking him out of his musings. “The gash is long, but not deep, so that’s good. Gotta go get a gauze,” he ads. Bucky’s hands are gone, suddenly, the warmth of his body retreating and Steve takes that moment of respite to breathe in deeply. He doesn’t usually let himself let his guard down like this, doesn’t let the coil of want and, worst of all, _hope_ grow in his belly, but he’s been all out of sorts lately. 

“Here.” Bucky’s back, turning the tap on, wetting the gauze and pushing his fingers into Steve’s hair. He cleans it as best as he can, grumbling about the pieces of dirt in the wound. It stings and Steve has to grit his teeth. It’s been long enough for the adrenaline to drop and the pain to set in.

Bucky’s worried fingers linger on Steve’s neck after he’s done, and, for a moment, Steve lets himself indulge. He leans into the touch on a small sigh. When Bucky inevitably pulls back, because Bucky is normal in a way Steve will never be, Steve closes his eyes, collects himself and plasters a small smile onto his face. He turns. 

“Thanks, Buck.” 

Bucky searches his face for a second, as if trying to pry around the edges of Steve’s smile, sensing the cracks. He doesn’t acknowledge the thanks in any way, only frowns again when he sees Steve’s equally beat-up face. 

“I’m taking you down to Ivan’s gym on Saturday,” Bucky says. He lifts his hand to shut Steve up as soon as he notices Steve is about to interrupt. “I’m not taking no for an answer here, Steve. You might be the stubborn one out of the pair of us, but I ain’t backing down on this. If you’re gonna fight, you’re at least gonna learn how to punch properly.”

“I can punch,” Steve counters. 

Bucky levels him with a flat stare. He doesn’t need words to say; _if you knew how to punch you wouldn’t be looking like that._

“There were four of them!”

Steve thinks that absolutely helps his case right up until the words leave his lips. 

“ _Four._ ” Bucky’s flat stare hardens, his mouth so tight the corners of his lips lose their ever-present curl. “We’re definitely going down to Ivan’s. Maybe getting punched there will stop you wanting to get punched on the streets.”

“I don’t just do it to get punched,” Steve argued because he _didn’t._ That was only a nice side effect. 

“Steve…” Bucky’s tone is pleading. “Ever since your ma died —”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Steve turns away and shuffles past the kitchen table to the window looking onto the dirty street below. 

“Well, you’re gonna have to talk about it sometime, won’t ya.” Bucky’s always been good at talking about feelings. He kept explaining how this and that made him feel, how that girl hurt his ego, how that other one bruised his heart. Whenever Steve tried to do the same, his throat choked up and he was overwhelmed by the urge to cry.

“It’s just...half a year later and it still hurts like a bitch.” There it is, the choked up breath, the hot wetness in his eyes. “And I’m scared. I — I don’t have anyone else. No one. It’s just me and the world now.”

“Hey!” Bucky takes two large strides knocking into a chair in the process. “Hey, don’t talk like that.” He grabs Steve by the shoulder, grounding him. “You’ve got me.”

 _No,_ Steve thinks when he looks at him. No matter how much of himself Bucky gives, it’s never enough, never enough for how much more of him Steve so selfishly wants to take. _No, I haven’t got you. You’ll get a girl one day, a family, and they’ll become your everything, your all. And I’ll be the childhood friend, the pal, the buddy who gets invited to dinner twice a month. I haven’t got you. Not in the way I want you. Not in the way I need you. Not in a way that matters._

*******

Bucky lifts the lapels of his coat higher and quickens his step. A quick annoying drizzle has started up, the sky darkening like a necessary prerequisite to a moody spring day. Bucky steps closer to the buildings, hoping the overhanging roofs will protect him from the rain even though they are far up high above his head. He sticks the paper bag he’s carrying into his coat. The paper’s already getting wet. There’s a corned beef sandwich in there for Steve. Bucky’s gone home for lunch, like he usually does and his ma gave him some for Steve too.

Steve works a lot. During the week he works at the art supply shop five blocks from his apartment, and he also has evening drawing classes every Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Ever since the first American troops were sent to fight the war in Europe, Steve also volunteers for civilian defense, training in First Aid, aircraft spotting and fire fighting. He’s tried to enlist too, of course, he did. As soon as he heard they were sending American soldiers over the ocean, Steve was the first in line, asking to be shipped there too. Luckily, the army wasn’t quite desperate enough yet. That was why Steve started volunteering in civilian defense. Reluctantly, Bucky started showing up from time to time too. Not because his heart was really in it, but because he couldn’t take Steve’s scowls whenever he refused to go.

Bucky doesn’t want anything to do with the war. He isn’t delusional enough that fighting would bring him any glory like some other guys are. He also isn’t desperate enough for an escape like some others. Or stupid enough, like Steve. He’s perfectly fine here in Brooklyn. All he wants is a nice warm bed to tuck himself into at night, some food on the table, some girls to flirt with and a best pal to take care of. Bucky is a man of small aspirations. And while small aspirations don’t get you into history books, they sure get you into the grave much slower. 

So Bucky keeps his head low, works at Carl’s repair shop, helps out his ex-boss at the docks whenever he can, and prays he wouldn’t get the draft. In the meantime, he takes care of Steve because Steve needs someone to take care of him. Not that Steve can’t _physically_ take care of himself. Steve just gets awful lonely and broody when he’s left to himself. Even more so now after Sarah’s death. His signature frown barely ever leaves his face now. It was a relief when Steve applied for evening art classes because he met some new friends there. He kept referring to them as _colleagues_ but from the way he spoke about Annie and Mark and Rita, Bucky knew they were more than mere acquaintances. Still, Bucky thinks it’s primarily his job to make sure Steve doesn’t brood too much so he tries to see him as much as possible.

He pushes the door of Brooklyn’s Best Art Supplies shop open. The bells attached to the door jingle softly and a voice from inside calls out, “Be right there!” Bucky’s still standing just inside the door so that he will only make one puddle instead of wetting the whole floor when Steve appears behind the counter.

“How can I help —” he starts. “Oh. Hey, Buck.” He smiles softly, the frown Bucky was thinking of earlier which Steve wears all the time softens, proving Bucky that his desire to hang out with Steve as much as he can is justified.

“Hey,” Bucky greets back and pulls out the paper bag. “Ma made corned beef sandwiches. I brought you one. I have about…” he looks at his wristwatch, “thirty minutes left before I have to get back to Clark’s. So, I can keep you company for about fifteen.” Clark’s repair shop was only about a fifteen-minute walk from the art shop, so Bucky and Steve could pay visits to each other when they got a break. To Bucky’s chagrin, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence. In the words of Clark Robinson, if there was work to do, there was work to do _first._

“Nice,” Steve takes two big strides to him and takes the sandwich out of Bucky’s hand. “You’re the best. And your ma’s the best. I’d marry her if she didn’t already have your pop.”

Bucky punches Steve in his shoulder.

“I said _marry_ ,” Steve says around a bite. “I’d treat her well!”

Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn’t deem him with an answer. Steve goes on, “Why are we standing by the door anyway? Come into the back.”

“Didn’t want to drip all over the floor.” Bucky shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the hook by the door, following Steve into the back room.

There’s a rickety chair there that Steve takes and Bucky pushes himself onto the table beside it. Steve hates it when he sits on the table or on the counter in his apartment, but apparently he doesn’t mind it here. While Steve eats, Bucky recounts the anecdotes from work of his past few days. Steve chokes on a piece of beef when Bucky tells him about a man who brought in a new radio claiming it didn’t work, but it turned out he had the volume on zero the whole time. Steve laughs so hard Bucky has to thump him on the back. Then Steve recounts his own ‘stupid damn customers’ stories. For someone who would defend humanity to his last breath, Steve sure does hate most of it.

When Steve finishes his sandwich Bucky prods him with his foot. “We still on to go to Ivan’s gym tomorrow?”

Steve’s eyes go all shifty. He grumbles something and stands up moving towards the shelves on his left. Bucky slides off the table and follows him. He takes him by the shoulder, turning him around. “Come on, Steve.” He takes a good look at his face, frowns at the lip that’s still split and the eye that’s still all yellow from the fading bruise. “Look at your face.”

“I don’t have a mirror,” Steve bites back a smart reply.

Bucky pretends he didn’t even hear it. One day someone will break Steve’s eye socket and what will they do then. He reaches up and brushes the arc of Steve’s eyebrow with his thumb. Steve goes stiff under his hand and Bucky knows he should pull back, knows that he’s basically fondling Steve’s face, but before he can stop himself, he brushes Steve’s brow again. Steve’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth and nods, dislodging Bucky’s hand from his face. “Yeah, uhh, fine, Buck. I’ll go. Okay. It’s fine. Good plan.”

“Thanks, Stevie,” Bucky says. It comes out low and quiet, way too much like a secret. He brushes the thought away and smiles. “Thanks,” he says again.

Before he can think about what he’s doing, he leans forward and kisses Steve’s temple.

When he finally puts some distance between them his heart is hammering in his chest. It’s not that he’s never kissed Steve like that. Sometimes, when they’re walking down the street, possibly slightly sloshed, laughing at a stupid joke they’d made, he pulls Steve in by the neck and kisses him on the forehead. “Love ya, pal,” he says and grins, the air light and breezy like a warm sunny day.

The air feels different this time. Heavy and charged like the sky before a thunderstorm. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Gotta go now. I’ll be at yours tomorrow morning. Don’t sleep in,” Bucky adds as if Steve ever slept in.

He’s by the door a bit too quickly, pulling his coat on. Before he walks out onto the street he looks back at Steve and throws him a small crooked smile. Steve returns it after a beat, looking like he’s solving a difficult puzzle.

*******

“Do we _have to_ go?” Steve asks when they’re already standing in front of the heavy door with a sign that says Ivan’s Gym. It’s red and yellow and somewhere it’s neither because parts of it have been scratched out.

“Stop whining.” Bucky throws him a reprobatory look that never works on Steve.

“Buck, you know I don't like going new places.” Steve shrugs the bag higher onto his shoulder.

“I know,” Bucky sighs. “But this place is nice. The people are nice okay. Suck it up, Rogers.”

“Last time you talked about ‘em you said they were a bunch of idiots.”

Bucky hates that Steve’s memory is so good. “They are,” he admits. “They’re idiots, but they’ve got good hearts. ‘S just that they’ve been punched so much it made them stupid.”

Steve gives him a withering look and pushes the door open. They move down the badly lit hallway, the smell of leather and sweat getting stronger as they near the gym. The muted sound of fists meeting boxing bags hits their ears when they step in. Bucky directs Steve to a bench where they place their bags and Bucky turns in search of Ivan. He always used to be in the gym on Saturdays, and a man of habit like him wasn’t about to change that in the span of a few months.

Indeed, Ivan is there, sitting in his chair by the boxing ring, looking as angry as ever with his permanently broken nose and deep wrinkles dragging his mouth down. Bucky starts walking towards him, dragging Steve along, but is stopped by a familiar voice.

“Barnes!” The sound of punching resonating from the nearest punching bag stops. Bucky turns to look. It’s no other than Loose Toothed Rico who’s smiling his gaped smile at Bucky. He walks closer, clapping Bucky’s shoulder with his gloved hand. “Where you, man? You just disappear!”

Rico doesn’t speak English very well, he’s only been in New York for two years, but his enthusiasm and propensity for gesticulation make up for the words that are missing.

“Ehh, you know how it is.” Bucky shrugs. “Life got in the way, I got lazy, the usual.”

Rico laughs, nodding. Most guys at the gym disappeared from time to time. They were hardworking fellas, most of them, and it was hard to keep up the motivation to keep showing up at the gym every day. The good thing was that they all kept returning back.

“I’m not here for me though,” Bucky explains. He sees Ivan nod in his direction and Bucky gives him a wave. Bob, another of the guys that Bucky’s boxed with, notices them across the room. He gives an excited whoop and jogs closer. He arrives right when Bucky’s clapping his hand on Steve’s shoulder shoving him forward. “Brought my pal along this time. He’s been getting into scrapes as you can see by his face. Thought I’d teach him how to throw a proper punch.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Steve grumbles and pushes him. The two guys laugh as if it’s the most hilarious thing they’ve seen all day. Bucky can imagine Steve trying really hard not to roll his eyes. He _did_ say they were a bit dumb.

“You’re Steve, ain’t ya?” Bob asks.

“I —” Steve’s eyebrows draw together. He throws Bucky a questioning look. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Bucky’s told us about you.” Bob gives Steve a polite smile and extends his hand. Steve shakes it. Bob’s the careful type. Incredibly cheerful and open if he likes you, but guarded in front of anyone new. Loose Toothed Rico, on the other hand, borders on manic ninety percent of the time.

“Steve!” Rico exclaims. He punches Steve in the shoulder, like he did Bucky. Steve almost loses his balance. “Nice to meet you!”

Steve laughs, nervous and uncertain. People didn’t usually react that enthusiastically upon meeting him. “Nice to meet you too.” He’s smiling but his expression is guarded. “Uhh, so, you know my name, but what are yours?”

“Rico!”

“Bob.”

They say at the same time then proceed to shove and elbow each other trying to determine who was first. Bucky _really_ did say they were dumb. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. He seems quite out of place, his nice, well-ironed plait shirt, and his spotless slacks, with his hair all nicely done, parted at the side with surgical precision — a guy would think he’s going on a date, not to a boxing gym. Bucky supposes it’s a sort of protection. Steve’s...unsure of his body to say the least. He hates it, hates that it’s inherently weak, that it’s trying to incapacitate him at every step, and he hates how it looks.

It’s that part, Steve giving himself a hard time because of how he looks, that pisses Bucky off the most. He thinks Steve looks swell. Yeah, he’s skinny and small and his jaw is narrow, but his shoulders are still broad and combined with his narrow waist, the shirt sits pretty well on him, and if he didn’t insist on wearing trousers two sizes too big, the ladies might even notice Steve’s got a pretty pert ass.

Bucky’s not a lady after all and even he noticed.

Not that he was really looking.

Though, maybe recently he’s been looking a bit more.

If he was fair to himself, he might have been looking more and more as years went by. Millions of puzzle pieces, each of them something that Steve was, or some _how_ that Steve was, slotting together excruciatingly slowly, with every piece that got added, bringing forth a clearer and clearer picture. He isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at yet, whole patches of the image still missing, but he feels it, feels it at the fingertips, the edges of the pieces trying to find the right empty slots. No, he’s not sure what he’s been looking at, but one thing is certain: the puzzle is Steve and Bucky _has_ been looking.

“Barnes,” Rico drags him out of his thoughts by punching him in the arm again. “Gotta train. Ivan no is happy.” Rico makes a scowling face, that with a glance to the edge of the ring, Bucky confirms matches Ivan’s exactly.

Bob grimaces. “We’ll hit the ring one of these days, Barnes. In honor of the old times.” He winks at Bucky and jogs off.

“I’ll go easy on you!” Bucky shouts after him. He’s pretty sure Bob would give him the finger if his hands weren’t wrapped up. He laughs. He’s missed these idiots.

Rico follows after Bob and after another punch to Bucky’s and Steve’s shoulder. Steve throws a curious look Bucky’s way. “You told ‘em about me.”

“‘Course I told ‘em about you.” Bucky doesn’t really understand how this comes as a surprise. “Why? Shouldn’t I have?”

“No, no, that’s fine.” Steve shakes his head. “It’s...nice.”

Bucky frowns but Steve waves his question away indicating they should get to Ivan sometime this day. When they finally get to him, Ivan takes one look at Bucky, and, without warning, punches him in the stomach. It’s not a hard punch, but it does get a surprised _oof!_ out of Bucky.

“You got soft,” Ivan grunts in his thick Russian accent.

“Yeah, yeah, guess I did, huh?” Bucky rubs his stomach. Nevermind that a guy didn’t expect to be punched in his goddamn stomach by a sitting seventy-year-old man.

“Brought a pal, if that’s okay? He needs to learn how to throw a punch.” Bucky doesn’t mention Steve got into a scrape though it is pretty obvious once you take a look at his face. Ivan doesn’t like trouble-makers, so Bucky keeps that information back.

“Good morning,” Steve greets. His voice is deep as always, seemingly unaffected, but Bucky notices his shoulders are squarer. Apparently he feels the need to show Ivan he’s cut out of stubborn cloth.

“Mornin’.” Ivan nods in his direction. His eyes flick up and down Steve’s body. “Hmph. Skinny.”

Steve bristles at that. He’s about to open his mouth, but Ivan gives him a hard look.

“You scared getting a little rough?” Ivan tilts his head and Bucky almost laughs out loud at the irony.

“No, sir,” Steve says, shoulders even squarer than before. “Not at all, in fact.”

Bucky shoots him a secret smile. The corner of Steve’s mouth perks up.

“Good.” Ivan nods, seemingly decided Steve is worthy of his time. “Bucky show you basics. Gloves, there.” He points to a large closet where Bucky already knows boxing gloves are. Most guys have their own, but some can’t afford it and Ivan did always take care of his guys. “Bag there,” he points to another corner where a bag is hanging unused.

“Bucky show you basics. Then my Irina show you more.” It’s all he says before he shoos them away to their own corner.

“Who’s Irina?” Steve asks as soon as they are out of earshot.

“His daughter. You’ll like her.” Bucky smirks. Irina, like Steve, is small and fierce. She’s only more deadly. “She’s in her forties. In better shape than all the guys in this gym. Good thing you’re not one of those loudmouths who underestimate women. For those, Ivan gives her the job to break them in. And breaks them, she does. Literally.”

Steve looks like he’s trying to determine whether Bucky’s pulling his nose.

“It’s true,” Bucky says. “She also has a pal. Another woman, been friends with her for forever, apparently. That one also knows some other martial art. She’s Japanese. Even more deadly, if you ask me, ‘cause she also knows how to kick. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Sure seems like a violent bunch.”

Bucky guffaws. “You’re the last guy on earth who should be saying that.”

“I’m not violent. I don’t _enjoy_ hurting people.”

That rubs Bucky the wrong way, anger flaring in his chest.

“So what? You enjoy hurting yourself?” he can’t help but snap. Maybe this isn’t the place to get into it, but, on the other hand, maybe it’s exactly the place. Instead of looking into Steve’s angry eyes, he picks up the boxing bag off the floor and heaves it onto the hook. He really is out of shape. This used to be easy and now he’s already breaking out a sweat.

“I don’t —” Steve starts. “I don’t fucking enjoy it, okay?”

“You do a swell job of proving that.”

“What do you want me to say? Fine. Maybe I do, okay?” The anger that has been swallowing up Steve’s eyes for months is at the surface again. “Maybe I fucking do.” Steve huffs and, in a split moment of inspiration, pulls his arm back, fist clenched.

“Don’t —”

Steve’s fist makes contact with the bag.

“Fuck!”

“— do that.” Bucky finishes.

“ _Ouch._ What the fuck? _”_ He shakes out his hand, as if burned.

“Yeah,” Bucky gives him a cocky grin. “They’re harder than they look. Maybe that’s gonna satisfy your sadistic needs.”

“Oh, fuck off. If you’re gonna keep yapping about this, we could just as well pack and leave.”

Bucky sighs, tries to put his own anger aside. “Sorry. I — it’s just. This is gonna help, Steve. I know it will. Not just learning how to punch, it’s gonna help get your anger out. Remember how mad I was when Dad got with that other woman and Ma found out? It helped. Takes your mind off things, you know. Cleans up in your head while you’re not even there.”

Steve shrugs, looking everywhere but at Bucky. “Yeah, well. Guess we’ll see.” He doesn’t sound hopeful.

“I’m just trying to help,” Bucky says quietly, seriously.

Steve finally meets his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” All fight seems to leave him and he deflates. “Thank you. Really, I mean it. Thanks.”

Bucky wants to pull him in, grab him by the shoulder and drag him into a hug. If he could, he would protect Steve from the ugliness of the world. If he could do that with a hug, he would wrap himself around Steve and never let go, keep him innocent, hopeful, happy. If anyone deserved that, it was Steve. Unfortunately, the world worked in the opposite way. Instead of Bucky wrapping Steve up, Steve was out in the world unwrapping it, tearing off the shiny paper and showing the injustice underneath, standing between the ugliness and the rest of the world like a shield, taking on the burden of a better future. Steve’s always been like that and Bucky’s always been unable to stop marveling at him.

Steve sighs, shaking his head, chasing away the seriousness from his face. “So, suppose you’re not meant to punch these with your bare hands?”

“Not really,” Bucky confirms. “You can, but you gotta at least wrap them up. But beginners can’t really do without gloves unless they want to break their knuckles. I couldn’t do it either. It’s been too long. But,” he gives Steve an apologetic smile, knowing that Steve will hate what comes next, “there’ll be no punching today.”

As expected, Steve’s face falls. Bucky laughs. “Sorry, Stevie. No punching today. You gotta learn how to stand properly, how to hold your body, how to keep your knuckles tight. So you will actually be hitting this bag with your bare hands. But it’ll be more like touching it. Feather-light, Steve, you listen to me, I’m not wrapping up your busted knuckles today, okay?”

“So what, I’m just gonna be fake punching it and you’ll stand here criticizing my form?”

“Exactly. And Mrs. Cornwall said you weren’t smart...”

“Mrs. Cornwall thinks the Earth is flat.”

“Revolutionary, don’t you think?”

“Actually,” Steve quips, a smart look on his face, “it would be the opposite of that. You know, since the whole point of it is that it _doesn’t_ revolve.”

Bucky laughs, belated, but no less sincere. In his humble opinion, Steve’s too smart for his own good.

“Wiseacre.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay, enough talkin’, let’s get to work.”

Bucky starts teaching Steve, showing him the basic stance, the basic strike, correcting him where he’s wrong and praising him when he gets it. Steve has a good intuition for movement, but he’s weak and that sometimes makes him uncoordinated. He gets frustrated easily, but Bucky knew that, so he smiles, and explains, patiently, but in a way that clearly shows he’s perfectly certain Steve will get it. He moves behind him, lifts Steve’s arms up with his own, shows him where to look past his fists, how to protect his face. He moves to the side, drags Steve’s left arm along the correct path to a Jab, his right hand to a Right Cross. He takes Steve’s fist in his hand, traces his fingers over Steve’s knuckles, tucks his thumb firmly over the fingers and shows him how to keep his wrist straight.

Bucky knows that there are moments where his fingers linger, where his touches drag, moments when his grip is softer than it needs to be, times when he’s staring a bit too much. Steve’s divested himself of his shirt, and stands in front of Bucky in his white undershirt and slacks, all sharp angles and pale skin and freckles that Bucky’s unable to take his eyes off. Bucky doesn’t quite know what to make of it. It’s Steve. It’s just Steve. But it’s also not. Not Steve in the sense that something inside of Bucky is shifting, something new is being born.

Another piece of the puzzle slots gently into place.

*******

It’s Thursday afternoon which means Steve’s first art class of the week starts in half an hour. Probably sooner. They’re late leaving his apartment.

“You have a watch,” Steve states the obvious, tugging Bucky’s hand out of his pocket. Bucky’s decided to accompany Steve to the school today. Incidentally, Bucky is also the reason Steve is running late. He glances at the watch, groans. Yup, late.

“Oh, come on, Steve! Ain’t my fault you don’t have a decent comb at home!”

They are, indeed, late because of Bucky’s hair. Or because of Steve’s apartment’s lack of a decent comb. Depends on whose point of view you take. Steve sure isn’t even considering Bucky’s.

“Your hair was _fine._ ” Steve lets go of Bucky’s wrist. He’d been holding onto it too long and it wasn’t conducive to his hasty walking.

“Fine isn’t good enough.” Bucky gently touches his pomade-filled hair, done in a nice — okay, Steve admits it’s nice now when it was only fine before — puff on the top of his head.

“Whatever. I’m late because of your hair.” Steve’s angry at how easily Bucky follows his hasty steps. Steve’s beginning to get winded up.

“No. You’re late because you don’t have a decent comb,” Bucky insists.

Steve throws him a dirty look. Bucky cracks a smile. “Aww, lay off it, Stevie, you know your teacher’s always late anyway.”

“Punctuality is a sign of respect and I need to respect my teacher.” Steve’s really bad at letting things go once he’s annoyed.

“Punctuality is the sign of a stick up your ass.” Steve punches him so that Bucky has no option but to step off the sidewalk with one foot. “It’s awfully boring, ain’t it? Being on time all the time. No expectation. No excitement. No suspense.”

“Now you’re just fucking with me.” Steve shoves him again but Bucky’s prepared this time and doesn’t so much as budge.

“A bit,” Bucky agrees with a playful smile. Steve rolls his eyes, but his heart skips a beat. This is the smile that’s most similar to the one Bucky offers a pretty dame when he’s trying to get homely with her. A bit teasing, a bit suggestive and a lot charming. Steve doesn’t know whether it’s worse or better that the suggestiveness of the smile is replaced by fondness when it’s directed at him.

Bucky’s gaze slips away and settles onto the street, on the passers-by. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Bucky says, “how do you like boxing? You haven’t said anything so I suppose you like it fine, but I don’t know. Do you?”

“Yeah, I...” Steve thinks for a second trying to form his thoughts in a way they make sense. “I do like it. I never thought guys like that could be so...nice. And I know a lot of it has to do with me being your friend, but I thought I’d feel…”

Bucky glances at him, curious. Steve grimaces. “Thought I’d feel dumber. Not stupid-like. But you know, thought they’d make me feel like I’m not good enough.”

Bucky nods. That’s usually what people think when they come to the gym. They all think they’ll be met with judgment. He doesn’t think whether it’s because of Ivan who doesn’t allow for such behavior or because it so happens that the right people seek out the place, but it’s generally a positive space. Most guys love it if they can help someone new. Sure they fight about who’s more right about this punch and that, and which combinations are most effective, but they’re eager to share and that makes for a friendly atmosphere.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. They’re nice guys. A bit stupid, like I told you, but nice.” Bucky pauses then continues, quieter as if knowing Steve won’t be too keen on him asking. “Is it helping? You know…” he trails off.

Steve doesn’t answer at first. He fidgets with the sleeve of his jacket, gauging his emotions. There’s been an enormous pit right where his heart was ever since his ma died. It’s still there, but the edges are getting softer. The rage he’s felt burst out of him every now and then is quieter too. There, but instead of bursting out uncontrollably it’s spilling over the edge slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, actually,” he says once he’s certain his words are true. “It is helping.” He bumps his shoulder into Bucky’s. “Thanks.”

Bucky practically beams at him. His mouth stretches and curves, revealing his teeth. The crooked tooth at the front is especially noticeable in the otherwise perfect row of white. Steve loves that goddamn tooth more than it’s probably normal to love a tooth. If people even love teeth at all that is. When it comes to Bucky, he’s stopped asking himself what normal things to love are. When it comes to Bucky, he loves the stupidest things; from small and unnoticeable to big and obvious. He’s never dared make an inventory, though, afraid that he’d come to the staggering conclusion that he loves a hundred percent of him.

“Steve,” Bucky draws his attention back to the present. Bucky’s eyes are serious when they flick between the sidewalk and Steve. “Is —” When he looks at Steve again his eyes are piercing. “Is our friendship different?”

Steve almost trips over his own feet.

He’s quiet for a beat too long, working on making his legs cooperate. “Uhh, what do you mean?”

Bucky purses his lips. “I don’t know, just...different.”

Has Bucky figured it all out? Has Steve been more obvious recently? The thing is, if Bucky asks, if Bucky straight-up asks, Steve won’t deny it. He won’t deny it and then it’ll all go to hell. But if it meant losing Bucky’s friendship...Bucky’s friendship meant more to Steve than anything he ever wanted but couldn’t have. “Good different or bad different?” he tests the waters.

Bucky doesn’t answer, thinking. “Neither, I think. Just different.” A second passes, his eyebrows scrunching when he seems to rethink his words. “Good different, I guess.”

“I —” Steve’s throat is awfully tight. He avoids Bucky’s eyes even though he knows Bucky’s searching for them. “I don’t know if I know what you mean.” Steve knows exactly what he means. “You mean stronger than most friendships?”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head. “I mean yes. Also that.”

He stops trying to catch Steve’s gaze, focusing on the path in front of them. He shakes his head, sighs. “I don’t know. Nevermind. Was just a thought.”  
Steve lets it slide, unable to not feel the pang of sadness that he’s been hiding inside his chest for ages. Steve was _fine_ , most of the time he was perfectly fine, happy. But every now and then, Bucky has to go and poke his heart with a stick right where it’s most raw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writers are like flowers except they are watered by comments *insert praying emoji*
> 
> If you like the fic, you can reblog [**this post**](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/post/613939169372356608/fic-right-hook%22%22) on Tumblr.
> 
> A big thank you to my friend [**whiskyandwildflowers**](https://whiskyandwildflowers.tumblr.com/) for her help with the moodboard! I never would have known about Seb's perfect boxing photoshoot otherwise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note (sorry, this will be long): A reference is made to racism and racist actions of Americans toward Japanese Americans after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. One of my side characters is an American woman of Japanese descent and experiences violence towards her (off-screen). 
> 
> After Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt issued an order that forced over 110,000 Japanese Americans to leave their homes in California, Washington, and Oregon. They were sent to live in one of ten detention camps in desolate parts of the United States. This was a racial crime of the first order as the internment left long-lasting traumatic consequences on the victims and future generations. Not to mention, it perpetuated racial stereotypes and bred violence among people. 
> 
> I tried to find out if all Americans of Japanese descent were sent to camps, but I couldn’t find any information on that and I think it would have been quite impossible to target every single one, so I have my character, Akiyo, still living in New York, but that doesn’t mean that she’s unaffected by the racism.
> 
> IMPORTANT: I am not of Japanese descent, neither am I American, so I am, admittedly, completely out of my depth here. I tried to do as much research as I could to understand the situation, but that still doesn't mean I presented it correctly. If anyone finds something wrong with it, or if I unwittingly played into the racial stereotypes, I sincerely apologize.

They go to Ivan’s at least three times a week, often four. Currently, Steve is in his apartment waiting for Bucky to show up so they can hit the gym together. Steve’s already itching for it. He hates how right Bucky was about it. It helps. It’s helped. Steve likes punching things and Bucky likes Steve not getting punched so using a punching bag as a medium makes them both happy.

When Bucky finally drops by Steve’s, gym bag over his shoulder, Steve gathers his from the floor where it’s been waiting to be grabbed. Bucky being Bucky means that they don’t leave for another twenty minutes. He needs to drink a glass of water, he needs to take a piss, he needs to take a “five minute rest, Steve, it’s not gonna kill you” on the couch. Steve’s used to it. Steve is also used to being annoyed by it. Annoyance hasn’t dissipated no matter how used he’s gotten to it. It’s only dulled. Where he would have snapped in the past, he only rolls his eyes now.

“So how was the date?” he asks when Bucky drapes himself across the couch.

They didn’t go to the gym yesterday because Bucky had a date. It was with a girl he met on one of the dances Steve never went to. Bucky invited her out and she said yes. They always said yes. Steve can hardly blame them. He’d say yes a thousand times over.

“Okay, I suppose,” Bucky replies with a shrug.

 _Okay, I suppose._ What kind of answer is that? The careless way in which Bucky says it makes irritation spike in Steve’s chest. Steve only had two real dates in his entire life. Neither had finished well. All other dates were double dates Bucky had set up. They hadn’t finished well either.

Steve doesn’t precisely mind that Bucky is popular with the dames and he doesn’t really mind that he himself is _not_. But he does mind that Bucky almost acts as if it’s a burden. Such a burden, being charming enough to charm your way into everyone’s beds. Okay, maybe Steve is just a little bit bitter. Bucky doesn’t know how glad he is that women like him, that he seems to compel people in a way Steve never could. Bucky has a presence. Steve supposes he has a presence too, but while Steve is a repellant chasing all the people away, Bucky is the light that everyone flies toward.

There he is, after a date with no doubt a gorgeous girl, and he’s completely indifferent about it. The anger jumps out of Steve before he has the chance to stop it. “ _Okay, you suppose?_ What, she didn’t give it up, like you wanted?”

Steve did admit he was a little bit bitter, didn’t he? Maybe a little bit more than he thought.

Bucky tilts his head at the change of tone. Steve schools his face as he scans it.

“Oh, she did,” Bucky says. Where there would once have been a cocky grin accompanying that statement, there’s only a thoughtful purse of his lips now. “Gave it all up and had a blast of a time.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Said it was okay.” Bucky’s answer comes out prickly. Steve can see his defenses go up, sees him about to brush the emotions away, plaster on his usual cocky smile.

“What is it?” Steve asks, prodding him with his foot. Bucky’s posture on the couch is more rigid than before. “Come on Barnes, tell me your love woes. You know it’s all the love life drama I get.”

Steve prods him with his foot again and Bucky cracks a smile. He lets his hackles fall, visibly deflating, a thoughtful look on his face. “I don’t know, Stevie. I guess it just don’t feel right. Feels like I’m going through the motions, not knowing what I really want.”

“Kind of hard to help if you don’t even know what you want.”

Bucky sighs dramatically and sinks further into the couch. “I know. I don’t know.”

“Are you Socrates?” Steve jokes again because he’s really not cut out for emotional conversations.

“What?” Bucky lifts his head which was in grave danger of being eaten by the crease in the couch.

“All I know is that I know nothing,” Steve quotes. “Socrates.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and kicks him in his thigh a lot less gently than Steve had prodded him earlier. “I know a bit more than Socrates. I know that I want love. Just love.”

“Just love,” Steve repeats. It comes out hollow. “Sounds awful simple for something that’s so hard to get.”

He would know, wouldn’t he?

“Exactly,” Bucky agrees. “That’s the problem. How _do_ you get it?”

“I don’t know, Buck, I haven’t been all that successful myself,” Steve says, and just like that it all comes crashing down on him. The way his stomach jumps when Bucky whispers in his ear, the way Bucky’s eyebrows draw together when he reads his science fiction novels and it’s _then_ that he looks the most beautiful, the way Steve goes warm all over when Bucky throws an arm around him and pulls him in. And isn’t it ironic that Bucky’s asking him about love? “I think sometimes all you need to do is wait.”

And sometimes the waiting never ends.

*******

Sweat is pouring into Bucky’s eyes, his undershirt and even his boxing shorts are drenched. It feels good, hitting the bag again, repeating the movement until the world falls away. Steve is off with Irina, learning some footwork and working on his strength. They seem to be getting on well. Irina is a no-nonsense kind of woman, and Steve likes no-nonsense kind of people. Bucky smiles at this thought and wonders how come Steve is friends with _him_ then. After all, Bucky’s all nonsense.

He throws a look in their direction to see how Steve’s doing. Earlier they worked on Steve’s footwork until he got too frustrated to follow anymore. Steve is a terrible dancer so it figures he’d have trouble with that when boxing too. It’s not that Steve’s movements lack elegance but they do lack effortlessness because Steve always thinks too hard. When Steve threw his hands up and cursed boxing into next Sunday, Irina made him move to the more physical aspect of training.

Now she’s coaching Steve through strength-building exercises, guiding him through crunches, push-ups, planks, squats. It looks like Steve is doing well, even though he keeps forgetting about proper form while he tries to push himself well over his limit.

Bucky’s getting pretty tired himself, but it’s precisely this feeling that he loves the most. When his body is telling him to give up, to stop, and his mind persists, pushing through the tiredness until he’s invigorated again, punching harder than before.

Punch, punch, punch, he loses himself in the rhythm of his leather glove smacking against the leather punching bag, when he notices a flurry in Steve’s corner of the room. He stops, turning to see Irina bent over Steve, calling for help. A few other guys run up, but all they do is hover, uncertain what to do.

Bucky’s feet carry him to Steve’s side before he even realizes he’s moving. He tears his gloves off his hands and throws them carelessly onto the floor. He knows exactly what’s happening.

“Move, move,” he says, sweat still stopping him from seeing properly. He shoves the others out of the way none too gently and crouches by Steve’s side.

Steve is wheezing, gasping for breath, like Bucky knew he would be. He’d pushed himself too hard, didn’t listen to his body again and his lungs had seized up, not letting him take the air in.

“Move away,” Bucky doesn’t shout, he doesn’t panic either. He’s witnessed this more times than he can count on the fingers of both his hands. Steve’s lungs have been better recently, better than when he was a kid at least, but it still happened sometimes. “He needs air, it’s his lungs acting up. Just move away.”

“‘S okay,” Steve wheezes. “‘M fine.” He tries to take a gulp of air.

“I know you are, pal,” Bucky agrees. He puts his sweaty hand on the back of Steve’s equally sweaty back and rubs. “I’ve got the epinephrine in my bag. Tell me if you need it.”

Steve shakes his head and makes an effort to take in a slow measured breath. He’s grasping at his chest as if trying to claw in another hole to let the air in. Bucky moves it away and rubs there too. Rubs Steve’s ribs and his sternum, trying to get his chest to relax. He leans in close, saying whatever comes to his mind, trying to soothe Steve, take his mind off the panic that inevitably sets in when his lungs don’t let him breathe. Bit by bit, Steve’s breath gets less ragged, less pained.

“That’s right, Stevie,” Bucky mutters. “You’re okay.”

“Thanks,” Steve nods, squeezing Bucky’s hand in gratitude. Bucky keeps his hands on Steve’s ribs, rubbing soothing circles.

“Don’t mention it.” Bucky dismisses the thanks. He smirks, nudging Steve in the shoulder when his breathing is almost normal again. “High time you gave us all your usual number. What a show!”

Bucky grins, spreading one of his arms as if commending a spectacular performance. It’s only when he turns to look around that he notices the tension in the room. His grin slips off his face. Most of the guys aver their eyes, some shuffle from foot to foot. Bucky feels Steve’s body go stiff under his hands. He withdraws them slowly, feeling for all the world as if he was caught doing something illegal and not helping his friend.

He catches Irina’s eyes. What he sees in them makes his heart jump in his chest. There’s knowledge, there’s realization, there’s understanding, all wrapped up in her green-brown eyes. Even worse, there’s pity. And discomfort. Discomfort at having witnessed something so intimate.

It’s a slap in the face, not because he feels like she’s judging him, the opposite. It’s exactly the way Bucky felt when Akiyo, Irina’s best friend, came to the gym bloody and limping two weeks after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. It was a shock to them all. Seeing Akiyo, such a competent fighter, and beside that, a calm, collected, radiant woman, hurt and angry and broken. Irina had ran up, cursing, while she patted her down, her movements frantic but gentle. Everything but Akiyo ceased to exist for her in that moment because the whole world was already cradled in her arms.

That was how Irina was looking at him right now. As if she’d seen him cradle the whole world in his arms.

Another piece of the puzzle gently settles into its place.

*******

It’s Saturday and Steve and Bucky have finished their training. They only worked out an hour or so before deciding they were too knackered to go on. It’s been a long and exhausting week and Steve still had his evening Saturday classes to go to. Despite that, they’re still at the gym at two in the afternoon because Bucky can’t fucking stop beating his gums.

He’s currently leaning on a pillar at the other side of the gym, hip cocked, an easy grin on his face, talking to Rico and Tommy, as if he has all the time in the world. When he sees Steve looking his smile softens at the edges. Steve gives him an exasperated look tapping the top of his wrist where his watch would be if he hadn’t taken it off when they came in.

“Gimme a few more minutes!” Bucky shouts. Steve rolls his eyes but nods.

Not many people are training anyway. A lot of the guys, like Steve, stand by the ring watching the spectacle inside of the ropes play out. Irina and Akiyo are boxing.

Steve was joined by Jimmy a few minutes ago. Every now and then they exchange a few words, but they mostly keep quiet. Everyone does.

Half the time Steve can’t really tell who’s winning. Irina seems to be getting more punches in, but Akiyo, unlike her friend, whose forehead is drenched in sweat, barely looks tired at all. Irina is taller and heavier. She’s muscular too. But Akiyo, though not skinny herself, is lighter and faster. She evades punches with ease and her footwork is incredible. She looks like she’s dancing except for when her punch hits. And when it hits it hits with such precision and power that she could lay a guy faster than he could blink.

When Akiyo lands a particularly heavy uppercut, Jimmy hisses in sympathy. Irina and Akyio are wearing protective headgear but the punch must hurt anyway. The glint in Irina’s eyes after she recovers from the punch is deadly. Akiyo sees it and grins, manically so, and Steve realizes these two are just as bad as he is. They like punching just a little bit too much and aren’t too opposed to getting punched either.

Irina attacks again. This time, there’s no hesitation in her movements. She gets hit back a couple of times but doesn’t seem to feel it. She punches Akiyo until Steve’s afraid her face will start spraying blood. When Akiyo hits the ropes, breathing heavily, she lifts her hands in defeat. Irina whoops, grinning like a lunatic.

Akiyo frowns, but it’s well-intentioned. She peels off her gloves and takes off the headgear, spitting out the mouth guard. Irina follows her suit.

“I won.” Irina gloats. It’s funny, Steve thinks how no matter the gender or the age, people never change.

“Yeah, yeah, you won.” Akiyo rolls her eyes, feeling at her cheek. It’s starting to swell a bit. Irina pushes her hand away, bending down to inspect the damage. Her fingers prod gently until she’s satisfied.

“You’ll be fine,” she says. “Also, in case you missed me saying it the first time, I won.”

Akiyo punches her in the shoulder, bare-fisted, making Irina laugh. Her face wrinkles and for the first time, Steve notices one of her front teeth is chipped.

“It wasn’t fair. If you’d have let me use my legs you’d be down in ten seconds.”

It’s probably true. Steve’s heard the guys talk about how Akiyo is a master of karate. They always speak about her with reverence and poorly disguised fear.

“But that’s not fair! You always win when I let you kick!”

“And you always win when we box!”

“Well, don’t that just make us the perfect pair?” Irina picks up their gloves off the floor throwing Akiyo a fond smile. “The two of us could lay every guy this side of Brooklyn.”

“The two of us have never laid a guy _anywhere_.” Akiyo quips and winks. They laugh, their shoulders bumping when they walk off the ring.

It’s in that moment that Steve realizes he’s eavesdropping. It’s also in that moment that it _clicks_.

They’re not friends. Not the kind of friends everyone’s made them out to be. Though, now that he thinks back on it, maybe they’ve hinted on it, but he never picked up on the clues.

His eyes scramble away from the ring, awkward. He needs to stop creeping. He turns and Jimmy’s still there, quietly watching him from the side.

“They’re together, you know?” Jimmy says.

Steve can’t read his face, so carefully he says, “Yeah, they’re best friends.” What if he’s wrong and others don’t know?

Jimmy smiles, no amusement on his face. It’s more of a ‘stop pretending you’re stupid’ kind of smile. “I meant like you and Bucky,” he pauses, searches Steve’s eyes. “ _That_ kind of friends.”

The situation tips from uncomfortable into dangerous. Steve doesn’t know Jimmy well. His heart jumps into his throat. “Me and Bucky?” He licks his lips. “What kind of friends are me and Bucky?”

Jimmy frowns as if trying to figure out if Steve might really be that thick. “You know…” he waves his hands, scanning Steve’s face, “the queer kind.”

Steve’s never been afraid in an alley fight. He’s afraid now. He doesn’t know where this is leading, he doesn’t know what one does when pulled out into the open like this. And Bucky’s not even queer. But apparently Steve’s enough of a fairy for Jimmy to have figured it out at least partially. He’s sure that vehement denial would get him nowhere, so he opts for playing stupid.

“I don’t understand,” he says, and, if he’s fair to himself, it doesn’t come out as very convincing.

Jimmy must see the fear in Steve’s eyes, or maybe it’s the way his body has frozen, unable to decide upon the best response. Jimmy stops leaning in, as if suddenly realizing he might look threatening — a giant, muscular boxer, leaning close into a skinny guy’s space. “Sorry,” he averts his eyes. His next words are much quieter. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell anyone.” He gives Steve a wry smile. “I’m one of you too.”

He waits for a few seconds to see if Steve will reply, but when he doesn’t, Jimmy turns on his heel and walks away. Steve watches his broad back retreat, feeling at once heavy and light. So maybe he’s a bit obvious. That’s not the best news, and maybe he should be more careful about how he looks at Bucky. The world out there is unkind to people like him, but he also feels...seen in a good way. Seen and understood. Like he’s not alone. He glances back at Irina and Akiyo quietly packing their bags next to each other and smiles. He’s not alone at all.

*******

Bucky almost walks into the door of Steve’s apartment before he remembers that the door is neither unlocked nor open. He would have laughed if this hadn’t been the ninth thing he almost walked into (he’d _actually_ walked into twelve things by now, among which, a pole was the most painful). The thing is, ever since Steve’s asthma attack at Ivan’s gym, he hadn’t been able to forget Irina’s gaze. Bucky feels like the solution to his puzzle hid in her gaze, but he can’t quite figure out the answer. It’s like it sits at the tips of his synapses, but evades him like a skittish mouse who you’d doubt was even in your room if you hadn’t heard the telltale scratching at night.

The door opens before Bucky’s gathers his wits to knock.

“Are you gonna just stand there or what?” Steve says, already in his Sunday best. The frown he never sheds is on his face as always, but Bucky’s day gets brighter when his eyes fall on it. Bucky’s day is always brighter when Steve is there, frown or no frown. His mouth stretches into an easy smile.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Heard you shuffling outside like an idiot,” Steve replies with that annoying smirk of his.

Bucky sticks out his tongue because he’s grown up like that, and shoves Steve away from the door. Making his way to the kitchen table he almost knocks into a chair. Steve snickers. Out of revenge, Bucky plops down onto the windowsill in the kitchen. The window is small and the sill narrow and crammed from both sides by pots and cups, but Bucky’s sat there enough times that Steve leaves space on it for Bucky’s ass. Bucky appreciates it that much more because he knows Steve doesn’t approve of asses on surfaces not meant for them. Steve’s funny like that. He sticks to rules where he doesn’t need to and absolutely disregards them where they’re necessary. For example, lying on his fucking enlistment papers. Bucky’s not stupid enough to bring it up on Sunday before mass, but by god will Steve soon see he ain’t the only stubborn one. Bucky will annoy him into dropping this delusional idea of his if it’s the last thing he does.

Seeing Bucky’s frown Steve offers, “Coffee?”

“Sure.” Bucky nods, even though that wasn’t the origin of his mood switch. He does love coffee. He’s not going to say no. Besides, it’s become a tiny tradition of theirs in the months after Sarah’s death. When, for the tenth week after the funeral, Steve didn’t show up at mass, Bucky came on the eleventh Sunday and dragged him to it, all the while Steve was huffing that he didn’t put any stock into God anymore since his prayers did no good where his ma was concerned. Bucky wouldn’t hear of it. Steve had been the one who believed in God in the first place. It was him who found a strange sort of solace in the ritual of the service and Bucky would be damned if he let anything take that away from him.

Ever since that Sunday, Bucky comes to Steve’s apartment early and they drink a cup of coffee together, maybe munch on some cookies if Bucky’s ma made any that week. There’s something precious in their routine Steve at the stove, cooking the one thing he knows how to cook, sun warming Bucky’s back and his ass slowly, but surely, sliding off the wooden windowsill. It’s comfort, it’s home.

When the coffee’s done, Steve pours it methodically into two mugs, adds a generous amount of sugar to both and pushes one mug into Bucky’s hand while he takes a seat at the kitchen table. Before Bucky accepts the mug he has to scoot back again or he would fall off the sill with coffee in hand. Steve sends him a pointed glare.

“Shut up,” Bucky says, flicking Steve’s ear while he’s still close. Steve glares harder. Bucky tries smirking but fails, an honest, happy smile taking place on his face instead.

Steve doesn’t like talking in the mornings, so they sit in comfortable silence, Steve contemplating Friday’s newspaper and Bucky contemplating Steve.

For the first time in weeks, the restless confusion inside his chest is quiet.

“What?” Steve says after a while, noticing Bucky’s eyes on him.

Bucky shrugs in response and takes another sip. The liquid is bitter-sweet and the beans over-roasted, but it’s another source of comfort, another thing that feels like home. Bucky’s ass slides further down the sill and he has to readjust again, taking great care not to slosh the coffee all over himself. Steve doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even pause reading last week’s newspaper, doesn’t smile, but every line of his body is saying “I told you so”.

“Oh, shut up,” Bucky says again.

Steve’s eyes flit to him glinting in the morning sun, bright blue and filled to the brim with laughter. It’s then that it hits Bucky. Without any fanfare, without even the slightest warning, the last piece of the puzzle slots into place.

*******

Steve settles onto his couch, satisfied with the day’s work. The art shop was busier than usual. Now that the warmer spring weather has started and the forecast promises more sun than it does rain, business owners are flooding the store buying colors to repaint their signs. When Steve came home, he made himself dinner and worked on a poster for the volunteering organization he worked for. This time it was about basic first aid, the poster explaining what kind of supplies to keep, what to do in the case of minor wounds and who to contact after. Steve thinks that after such a busy day, he deserves some well-needed rest.

His bones ache as he pushes himself against the arm of the couch, propping his crossword puzzle against his knee. He’s not particularly good with crosswords; Steve is good at drawing, Bucky’s better with words. But Bucky’s not at Steve’s for a change. He’s either home or outside, dancing or drinking or both. Probably both. Nevertheless, Steve gives the crossword the old college try.

Not five minutes pass by when he hears someone fumbling with his door. He tenses. Something scrapes against the lock. What kind of a burglar would break in when there’s light spilling on the hallway under the door, clearly indicating someone’s home? Another scraping noise comes from the lock and then the object slides in smoothly, unlocking the door in one swift movement. The person has a key. Only one person has the key. The person is Bucky. Steve turns his head. The person is indeed Bucky, albeit one very corked Bucky Barnes.

“Steve!” Bucky throws his arms apart in a big-gesture greeting. His keys fly out of his hand and land somewhere by Steve’s kitchen table. The apartment is small enough that traveling from one room to another doesn’t take more than a few paces. Or an accidental key-toss, in the case of a drunk man.

Bucky stumbles around the couch and falls into it, falls into Steve’s side. “Steve,” he sighs this time rather than shouts. Bucky’s a right touchy-feely as it is. Drunk Bucky is a hundred times worse. He throws an arm over Steve’s waist and buries his face in Steve’s neck. When he breathes out the smell of cheap whiskey hits Steve’s nostrils.

“Eww, Buck,” he wrinkles his nose. “Why did I ever give you the key?”

“‘Cos I’m a pain in th’ ass?” Bucky mumbles. Steve can feel him blinking, Bucky’s eyelashes fluttering against the sensitive skin of Steve’s neck. The coil in Steve’s stomach that he seems to wear whenever Bucky’s near, tightens and warms at the same time.

“That you are.” Steve nods minutely in order not to knock his chin into Bucky’s head. “Don’t know if that was my reasoning, but gotta give you that.”

Bucky grunts something that sounds like an agreement. Steve sits still for a while expecting Bucky to disentangle himself. When that doesn’t happen, he asks “You just gonna stay like this?”

“Mmm,” Bucky unlike Steve, nods vigorously, jostling Steve’s entire body.

“You’re a heavy fucking log, ya know?” Bucky only nods again. Steve sighs dramatically, but a small private smile sneaks onto his face as well. “Got ya. But lemme move a bit.” One of Steve’s arms is trapped under Bucky’s. He pulls it out and shifts so that Bucky’s weight isn’t putting so much pressure on his bent back. “I gotta finish my crossword.”

Bucky’s arm tightens on Steve’s stomach and he pulls himself in closer. His nose nuzzles Steve’s neck. Steve’s heart skips a beat.

“You fallin’ asleep?” he asks because he needs to distract himself from the way his skin tingles where Bucky’s stubbled chin is pressing against his collar bone.

“Nuh-uh.” Bucky shakes his head, softly this time. “Feelin’ kinda sick.”

“Barnes,” Steve goes stiff all pleasant feelings from being this close to Bucky disappearing, “If you chuck up that whiskey you drunk on me, I’m gonna boot you off the fire escape.”

Instead of replying Bucky shakes his head again and nuzzles closer.

“Fine,” Steve says, still a note of warning in his tone. “Help me with this word then, you’re better at crosswords than me. Even drunk probably.”

“‘M good at crosswords,” Bucky mutters as if that wasn’t exactly what Steve said.

“Yeah, I know.” Steve rolls his eyes. Unfortunately, Bucky can’t see it. “What’s a five-letter word for a rod?”

Bucky’s quiet for a while then he giggles. “Cock,” he whispers, his lips brushing his neck.

“That’s —” Steve gulps. He doesn’t know what he was expecting with Bucky as drunk as he is. “That’s four letters.”

“Then…” Bucky shifts, pressing his mouth to Steve’s ear, sending shivers down his spine. Steve knows that Bucky’s out of his mind, alcohol drugging up his brain, but he can’t help but close his eyes, squeezing Bucky tightly, enjoying the closeness just for a moment. Then Bucky mutters his next answer. “Dick,” he mumbles right against Steve’s ear and giggles again, his whole body shaking.

“Still four letters.” Steve’s voice cracks on the last syllable, like an old clay pot that took one too many a trip into the oven.

“Write it with two C’s then.” Bucky finally, blessedly, moves his lips off Steve’s ears and neck. It’s better for a second, but then his hand wraps around Steve’s waist right where Steve’s shirt had ridden up and Steve positively trembles when Bucky’s skin touches his. Whether it’s because his hands are cold or because Steve is getting increasingly bad at tamping down his desire, he doesn’t want to examine.

“Di-c-c-k. Di-c-c-c-ck,” Bucky enunciates, slow and slurred, and Steve laughs the high amount of stress his nervous system is under momentarily forgotten.

“You’re a real jerk, you know that Barnes,” Steve tells him, still laughing. When he stops Bucky withdraws, pushes Steve’s hands, one with a pencil, the other with a crossword in them, off his lap and lies over it himself. Bucky looks up at Steve with pleading eyes.

“Pet my hair?”

“Buck…”

They used to do this a lot, especially when Bucky’s sisters were younger. They’d teach Steve and Bucky how to braid their hair, sometimes making them braid each other’s even though they were only able to make a sad slim braid, usually from the fringe. Without fail, it always made them fold into heaps of laughter, it looked so ridiculous. They were used to touching each other like that. Easy. Innocent. Playful. They stopped sometime along the way. Maybe it was Steve’s fault. He felt no innocence when he thought about carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair now.

“Please?”

Bucky’s gaze is so soft Steve can’t resist. He sighs, drops the crossword on the arm of the couch and pushes his fingers into Bucky’s wild black hair. Bucky’s eyes don’t leave him, it’s Steve who looks away. He settles his eyes on the dirty pot he couldn’t find it in him to clean after dinner. Bucky sighs softly in his lap when Steve drags his nails over his scalp. They stay like that for a while, Steve untangling the strands of Bucky’s hair, grateful that he passed on pomade that day. Steve loves Bucky’s hair like this. It’s thick enough to stand up in a nice swirl above his head without the slick hair stuff.

“You got a dick,” Bucky announces unprompted, tearing Steve from his thoughts. Bucky hasn’t closed his eyes once, Steve checked surreptitiously a few times, but this time his gaze isn’t trained on Steve.

He’s looking sideways. He’s looking sideways at Steve’s stomach. _At the waistband of his pants._ Steve feels a tingle of something like shame and arousal mixing in his blood. He wants the couch to swallow him up, but he also doesn’t really want Bucky to stop looking at him.

“Uhh,” Steve says after too much time has passed. “Yeah — uhh — I mean yeah. I do.”

What is a guy supposed to say to that anyway?

“I know,” Bucky mutters.

Steve can’t make himself look at Bucky’s face for fear of betraying more than he can bear Bucky knowing. “It’s kinda small, though,” he says and all the fallen angels of hell, why on this _goddamn earth_ is Steve saying that?

“I know,” Bucky whispers. And it’s true. He knows. He’s seen it. Not recently. But not long ago to forget apparently. Steve’s neck begins to burn, and he’s pretty sure his organs caught fire. Bucky shrugs in his lap. “Easier to suck.”

Steve chokes on his own saliva. He swallows hard as if that will help put out the flames licking up his neck. His eyes finally fly to Bucky’s. Bucky’s irises are dark in the low light. He too is looking straight at Steve.

“I’d suck it for ya,” he says, without a thought, without any filter at all. “But I might actually throw up then.”

The fire finally makes it all the way up to Steve’s forehead and he flushes like he hasn’t flushed in his entire life.

“Jeez, Buck.” His voice comes out hoarse. He knows he waits too long, but what can a man who happens to have dreamt that exact scenario more than a dozen times say to his best friend who is currently completely off his rocker. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

Bucky averts his gaze. He doesn’t seem as embarrassed as Steve is, but he’s also drunk off his head. Bucky shifts. He’s still lying with his head in Steve’s lap but it feels like he’s farther away than he was. He opens his mouth, his eyes more focused than they’ve been all evening, then shakes his head, swallowing the words he wanted to say.

A few beats of tense silence pass between them. Steve’s hand still awkwardly rests on top of Bucky’s head, not moving. Bucky sits up.

“It’s stick. The word you need’s stick,” he mutters, sounding a lot less drunk than he did before.

*******

They’re sitting on the fire escape in front of Steve’s bedroom. The city below is joyful, alive, the light spilling out of the windows reflecting in the cars parked on the street. The spring air already smells faintly of summer. Steve’s never known whether you could really smell the change of season, but he swears he can feel the promise of burning sunshine, the whisper of languid summer afternoons.

Steve swings his legs, that dangle off the fire escape. It’s something he’s loved doing since he was a child. It gives him a thrill, watching his shoes swing back and forth feet above the heads of passers-by. Bucky sits beside him, leaning onto the railing with one arm while the other is preoccupied with pushing the cigarette into his mouth and out again. The faint orange gleam of the setting sun brings forth his features, the dimple in his chin, the curl of his hair, the curve of his mouth. Steve’s never met anyone with a mouth this curvy. It’s hell to draw, but when you get it right, it’s satisfying beyond compare.

“Stay like this,” he mutters, inspiration hitting. “I wanna draw you.”

He makes a move to get up, but Bucky’s words stop him. “Steve,” he says quietly. He doesn’t look at him, only continues to stare over the roof of the building in front. “Not now. Stay here.”

The smoke curls around his face, making him impossibly more compelling. Steve can’t find it in himself to protest. He settles down, leans back on his hands and directs his gaze into the distance. They sit like that for a long while. Bucky’s cigarette is almost entirely burned out when Steve sees him shift from the corner of his eye.

Without looking at him, Bucky’s hand, slowly, gingerly, inches towards Steve’s. They both keep their eyes trained on the horizon even when Bucky’s hand covers Steve’s, freezing him in place. Bucky hesitates for a split second, then as if gathering courage, closes his eyes briefly before taking Steve’s hand in his, twining their fingers. His other hand is still on the railing, the cigarette now left to burn out between his lips. He doesn’t move otherwise. Steve copies him, but where Bucky’s posture is soft and relaxed Steve’s whole body is coiled.

“Bucky?” He finally finds his voice.

“Yeah?” Bucky finally takes the cigarette out of his mouth, budding its light on the rail.

“What — umm, what are you doing?” Steve’s heart would be hammering if he knew what to make of the situation. He doesn’t, so his heart beats a steady beat, unaware of Steve’s internal crisis.

“Holdin’ your hand.” Bucky gives the faintest of shrugs. He keeps his gaze trained onto the city.

Steve needs a full minute to come up with the next question.

“Why?”

Bucky takes time to respond himself. When he does, he simply says, “I want to.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

A beat.

“No.”

“Okay.”

The city is loud but Steve feels like he’s wrapped up in silence. Bucky’s pulse thrums against his skin, finally kicking his heart into gear. There are calluses and cuts on Bucky’s fingers — every now and then, one of them twitches.

“You still haven’t really told me why you’re holding my hand,” Steve reminds him and his voice is so normal he feels like he’s dissociated from his body completely.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you don’t want me to stop.”

Steve gulps, weighs his chances.

“I’m good, thanks.”

A faint smile curls the one corner of Bucky’s mouth that Steve can see. His thumb, a bit dry and rough, caresses the back of Steve’s hand. Steve’s already wrecked heart-beat scrambles, forgetting its rhythm.

“Is this about our friendship being different?” Steve asks because he can’t keep his mouth shut.

Bucky still doesn’t look at him, but Steve can see him swallow. He’s nervous too.

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve only nods and for the first time in years, he doesn’t think about how long he’s wanted this for. That part of his brain is blissfully quiet, letting him enjoy the moment as if his brain hadn’t painted the same scene for him a hundred times over. Bucky is holding his hand. For the first time ever. They’ll have to talk about this sooner or later, he knows. But right now he lets himself enjoy in the warmth of Bucky’s palm.

Different.

Good different.

*******

Bucky pushes the chair he’s sitting on back from the kitchen table trying to balance it on the back legs. His ma never let him do this as a kid, so now that he’s all grown up, he can’t resist the urge to do it as soon as he has the chance. And Steve, an ace man that he is, always lets him do it in his kitchen. It would be rather hypocritical if he hadn’t because chair-swinging is Steve’s favorite sport.

Bucky lounges on the chair, avoiding the crumbs still littering the table, while Steve washes the dishes. He’s got his hands inside the soapy water, and a big pile of dishes that he’s none too happy about to his left.

“I hate washing up,” Steve grumbles for the fourth time. The count is impressive even for him; he’s been washing the dishes for all of five minutes.

“You hate cooking more,” Bucky reminds him.

“Ugh,” is all Steve says, neither an agreement nor a protest. He’s quiet for a while, then he speaks up again. “I hate it when I have to wash up when my stomach is full to bursting and all you do is sit there enjoying life.”

Bucky snorts. Steve can be so dramatic. “That’s because _I_ cooked _you_ a delicious dinner. The least you can do is wash up.”

Steve harrumphs. Soap bubbles already cover his arms up to his elbows. The plates softly clink in the sink.

“Why did you have to use so many pots?”

Bucky rolls his eyes even though Steve can’t see it. “Because I made you a delicious goddamn dinner and you need many pots for that, jeez, you’re such an ungrateful husband,” Bucky teases, but there’s no denying that a tingle of nervousness runs through his toes, a jumpy sort of excitement. Husband.

This would have been nothing more than a joke a week ago. It’s too loaded to be funny now.

Steve doesn’t say anything to that, doesn’t even throw him a withering look. He falters a bit but then pushes his hands deeper into the water and grimaces when he touches a bit of food. Bucky watches his mouth turn down, watches how his hand jerks, how his fringe drops into his eyes. He won’t able to brush it away without spreading soap over his brows.

Nervousness spreads into Bucky’s belly, uncurling in the form of a reckless impulse. He knows what he wants. He wants to touch Steve. A lot. Bucky’s heartbeat picks up, his mind flitting to the night on the fire escape when he took Steve’s hand in his.

And Steve let him.

Bucky’s not stupid, he knows there are unsaid things hanging between them, and Bucky doesn’t care much for unsaid things. He lets the chair plop down and gets up. Steve continues to frown into the sink. Bucky crosses the kitchen in slow, sure strides trying to hide his nerves from himself. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. All he knows is that he _shouldn’t_ be doing this, shouldn’t even be _wanting_ this. But he does, so...call him spoiled, but Bucky’s never been good at denying himself things he wants.

He steps up behind Steve and sees Steve’s movements become more clumsy. To hell with it, he thinks, swallows, and steps in even closer, not yet touching, but too close for the action to be taken as ordinary.

Steve stops moving completely, pan in one hand and sponge in the other. Warmth radiates off him, and Bucky wants to press himself against him so bad he feels a physical ache in his chest. He inches forward until his chest is flush with Steve’s back. _One foot in, he might as well put in the other one._ So he presses his nose into Steve’s hair, inhales the smell of Steve’s shampoo. It’s familiar, the way everything about Steve is, the only difference being that, up close, it’s much, much more intense. He slides his arms around Steve’s torso as well, because, to fuck it — two feet in, two arms in.

The pan drops into the water when Steve’s hand goes lax and the ensuing wave that spills over the edge of the sink soaks Steve’s front and sprays Bucky’s forearms. Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

“What are you doing?”

Bucky thinks it’s rather obvious.

“Hugging you?” Bucky gives him the same cheeky answer he gave when he held Steve’s hand.

“Bucky.” Steve is stiff in his arms, but he’s quickly softening, molding slowly against Bucky’s back. Bucky presses his nose further against the top of his head, marveling at how right Steve feels in his arms.

“What?” He mumbles into Steve’s hair. It tickles his mouth. He loves it.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m hugg—”

“Stop playing dumb.” Steve’s response has a sharp edge to it.

Bucky swallows. He’s sure this time Steve can feel it all over his body.

“I’m—” Bucky starts but words die in his throat. He’s good at being charming, he’s good at seducing. He’s not good at telling the truth, especially when the truth makes his blood pound so fiercely in his veins. “I’m trying something out, okay?”

Turns out, that was the wrong thing to say. Steve’s back goes rigid again. Bucky feels him take a slow breath. His head falls forward, hiding even the part of his face that Bucky was able to see.

Quietly, Steve says, “Buck.” His fingers spasm around the sponge nervously. “I don’t think I can handle you ‘just trying something out’.”

Bucky pulls his arms back slightly, settling them on Steve’s waist.

“If you don’t want me touching you, I’ll stop.” Maybe Bucky has misread the situation. Maybe Steve isn’t okay with Bucky touching him. He backs away for an inch, letting some air between their bodies, letting Steve know it’s his choice to let go. He doesn’t think Steve really wants to, though. Not when he can sense Steve’s whole body fighting to lean back. “But I don’t think you really mind me touching you. Do you?.”

“I don’t.. no. I don’t...mind. It’s just—” Steve’s hand clenches into a fist, squashing the sponge between his fingers. He takes a shaky breath. “Listen, I can’t be some sort of an experiment, okay? I can’t be something you _try_ just ‘cause you’re bored of all the girls.”

Bucky steps back as if burned. His arms slip from Steve’s waist, a dead weight. The chilly air of the apartment hits him in the chest. Immediately, he misses Steve’s warmth. Suddenly, he’s very, very angry.

“Jeez, you gotta go and make it cheap.” There’s bitterness on his tongue. He doesn’t know why, but Steve’s words sting more than they should. Bucky runs a hand over his face, palm rubbing viciously at his cheek. When Steve turns to look at him, Bucky tries to explain. “I never said I got bored of the girls, alright? That has nothing to do with this. Why you gotta jump to that conclusion… I — I just thought there was something...” he trails off, waving between them in hopes that his gestures will explain what his mouth can’t.

Steve is quiet for a long time, eyes studying Bucky’s face. The front of his slacks is completely soaked. Bucky would have teased him about it any other day, but Steve’s gaze weighs too heavily on him. Bucky’s almost relieved when he speaks again.

“You know what this makes you?”

Bucky’s eyes flit to the floor. _What this makes you._ He clenches his jaw.

“Yeah.” He jerks with his head. He was attempting to nod, but his body had other ideas. “Yeah, I know.” He shrugs. “Can’t say I really thought about it much, though.”

Steve huffs, almost a laugh, except that it sounds too sad. This time it’s Steve who averts his eyes. “Maybe you should. Think about it. Before you go doing something you can’t take back. Before you…”

He sighs.

“Before I what?”

Stubbornly, Steve’s eyes remain trained somewhere on Bucky’s left.

“Before you take what you want and run off when something easier comes along.”

Bucky feels like he took a punch directly into his solar plexus.

“Steve…”

“I know your game, Bucky.”

“Come on, Stevie.” Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s pleading. Probably pleading for Steve to see him in a better light. Except that Steve is right and there’s nothing Bucky can say without also becoming a liar. Bucky has always loved easy.

Steve raises his head and meets Bucky’s eyes. “I think you should go.” When Bucky’s about to protest, he lifts his hand. “Please. I’m not mad, Bucky, just… please?”

And he’s not, Bucky can see as much. Steve’s not mad, but he is serious, somber. All Bucky can do is nod and see himself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments on the previous chapter, I hope you enjoyed this one too! <3
> 
> If you like the fic, you can reblog [**this post**](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/post/613939169372356608/fic-right-hook%22%22) on Tumblr.
> 
> A big thank you to my friend [**whiskyandwildflowers**](https://whiskyandwildflowers.tumblr.com/) for her help with the moodboard! I never would have known about Seb's perfect boxing photoshoot otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the number of chapters because I decided I'll post the (smutty) epilogue separately. It'll be posted tomorrow (Sunday!)
> 
> Btw, I don’t know why I keep having Bucky watch Steve like an idiot while Steve does things, be it washing the dishes or making coffee or shelving boxes, but I do. Just take it for what it probably is: Bucky is a dumbass in love.
> 
> Also...this turned out angstier than I expected. For some reason, I cannot, for the life of me, write a completely light-hearted fic.

Bucky slinks into his room that evening, ignoring Becca’s call and only grumbling a response (“No.”) to Ma’s question about whether he wants the leftover dessert. He doesn’t know what to make of Steve’s words. He lies on his bed for more than an hour, purposefully forcing his mind away from what Steve said until he falls into a fitful sleep. He wakes a number of times but his mind doesn’t muster up any coherent thoughts. All it does is conjure the memory of Steve’s back pressed against his front, the look of reluctance he saw when Steve pushed him away. He hears the words _what this makes you_ with every single possible inflection Steve’s mouth had ever produced. His head reels for so long, he starts doubting what actually happened.

Whenever Bucky doesn’t know what to do, he seeks out Steve. Not that Steve’s advice is any good, mind. Usually, it’s some dumbass advice, the equivalent of punching your way through the issue, sometimes literally. No, he doesn’t seek him out because Steve is such a good advisor, but because Bucky always feels calmer when he’s around him. No problem seems as big as it is when Steve is there. Steve puts things in perspective. So, even though Steve is the origin of the problem now, Bucky decides that’s all the more reason to start solving it there.

He heads to the art shop. The air is heavy with the promise of rain. Even though it’s the end of May, Bucky had to wear a jacket. The weather is serving them the last fresh breath before the hot summer arrives in full force. On a whim, Bucky stops at a corner shop and buys Steve and himself two small chocolate bars.

It’s only when he enters the art shop and Steve’s head pops up from under the counter where he'd been looking for something, that Bucky realizes he doesn’t really know what he came here for. What did he want to say?

“Hi?” is what ends up leaving his mouth and even that comes out as a question.

“Hi,” Steve answers.

Now, this is strange. There’s tension in the air, an awkwardness that is so unnatural for them that it stalls them in their step. Everything has always been easy with Steve. Even the worst arguments they had had never made Bucky shift from one leg to the other with the urge to turn tail and run at the surface of his mind.

“I —” he looks down and sees the chocolate bars in his hand, “— brought you chocolate.”

“Oh,” is all he gets in return at first. When the silence stretches on, Steve clears his throat. “Umm, thanks. Is there any reason you’re bringing me chocolate at ten in the morning?”

“It’s ten in the morning?” Bucky feels like time has been suspended and nothing is real anymore.

Steve glances to his left, at the big round clock on the wall. “Fifteen to, actually.”

Oh, god, why does Bucky suddenly want to die?

“Well,” Steve prompts when Bucky continues to stand by the door. “Give me that chocolate.”

Bucky laughs and that’s what propels him into motion. Steve always had a sweet tooth.

Bucky hands Steve the chocolate bar and Steve unwraps it, biting into it before he’s even able to inform Bucky that he can’t put the kettle on for some tea as he just got some new stock delivered and needs to put it away. It’s blocking an entire aisle of the shop, Steve tells him waving his hand at the aisle to his right. There are boxes piled one upon the other at the end of it. Judging by the labels the majority of them contain cans of paint for maintenance work, but there must also be some easels in the long boxes. Bucky wishes Steve could afford to buy one. He knows Steve’s always wanted to paint but was confined to drawing into his small notebooks with half scraped charcoal pencils. At least Steve gets to paint at art school. Bucky’s so glad they were able to scrape together enough money for Steve to join the evening classes.

He offers to help and follows Steve to the pile, but is waved away and told to sit on one of the crates.

“You won’t know where to put the stuff, and that’ll only be more work for me in the end when I’ll have to re-shelf everything,” Steve tells him in a muffled voice, still chewing on the chocolate.

So Bucky sits on the crate, unwrapping his chocolate as Steve sets to work. He watches Steve open the first box with a small knife, his long fingers practiced in their motions. Bucky chews on his chocolate slowly, taking small bites. Steve shelves the first box of paint before Bucky even gets half-way through. The next box is filled with even bigger cans, and while Steve strains a little getting them out of the box, he’s more than capable of holding his own. Steve might be weaker than Bucky, but he’s obviously gained some strength since they started going to Ivan’s.

Bucky thinks how funny it is, him sitting on a crate filled with who knows what, completely content with watching Steve work. And hasn’t it always been like this? Bucky seeking Steve out, Bucky watching Steve draw, Bucky watching Steve struggle through pneumonia, Bucky watching Steve in class when Steve’s eyes went unfocused, a young boy so full of energy he couldn’t stand to sit for hours on end.

Bucky thinks about how perfectly okay Steve’s always been being alone. How Bucky had to practically wrangle him into their friendship, how Steve didn’t seem to understand that someone would _want to_ spend time with him. But young Bucky was fascinated by him so much that he couldn’t stop seeking him out. Bucky remembers how his jaw dropped the first time Steve talked back at one of the teachers after she gave him an unfair punishment, how she’d sent him to the headmaster, and how Steve didn’t even flinch, didn’t show any fear, only lifted his chin up and told her — him, a six-year-old child to a fifty-year-old teacher with narrow glasses perched on her nose and a big downturned mouth — that he hoped _the headmaster had more of a sense for fairness than she did._

He thinks about how he told it to his father almost with reverence and his father gave him a stern look and warned him not to pull that kind of a sad joke ever or he’d get a whooping at home as well as at school. Bucky never did anything like it, but he never stopped wishing he had the balls to either.

So he watches, like he’s done for so many years, as Steve rolls up his shirt sleeves, the tendons and veins in his arms standing out from increased blood circulation and strain, and marvels at the coil of desire that heats at the pit of his stomach as Steve deftly slices another box open. This heat might be new, but it might have always been meant to happen. Steve’s hair flops into his eyes as he takes a can out of the box. He awkwardly brushes it away with his forearm.

“I’m in love with you,” it slips out of Bucky, chocolate bar forgotten — probably melting — in his hand.

Steve, who’s been reaching for the highest shelf, drops the can he’s been holding, catching it at the last moment before it hits the floor. A few tense seconds pass between them. Bucky’s heart has gone completely wild in his chest.

“No, you’re not,” Steve says. Firm. He turns to face Bucky, obviously shaken, but quickly regaining his balance.

“Yes, I am.” Bucky knows it surer than he knows the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. There might come a day, in a million years, when the sun is gone, but this will still be true.

“Bucky, please…” Steve sighs. “You’re not.”

“And you would know?” Bucky counters.

“Yes, I would!” Something seems to flare up in Steve, not quite anger, frustration maybe. He mutters, mostly to himself, “Yes, I fucking would.”

“You’re in love with me, too.” It falls into place really, quite easily, this realization. And hasn’t Bucky had a lot of them recently? He’s dealing pretty well, all things considered.

Steve’s jaw jumps, but he doesn’t say anything.

“You are,” Bucky repeats, stating a fact, but marveling at it all the same.

“It changes nothing.” Steve turns back to the shelf, shoulders stiff and back rigid.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky’s emotions finally react, disbelief flowing through him. “This changes everything!”

It changes _everything_. It tilts the world in a new direction. It adds a hue to it that Bucky’s never known existed.

Steve’s head falls forward, sad. “It doesn’t change that no is still a no.”

It’s said quietly, but it would have hurt less if Steve had shouted it.

Bucky doesn’t know why, but he continues to sit on the uncomfortable crate, his ass slowly numbing, continues to watch Steve, continues to munch on his chocolate, even though it doesn’t taste as sweet as it did before. Maybe Steve is right, maybe it truly changes nothing. Bucky will still be Steve’s friend and Steve will be his, they’ll still have each other’s backs, Bucky will still watch Steve and Steve will still drive him crazy with his stupid decisions. He’ll just have to deal with this new ache in his chest.

*******

Steve is still panting hard even though he and Irina have finished boxing in the ring more than ten minutes ago. He’s not afraid he’ll get an asthma attack, he can usually feel it coming, and right not he knows he’s just tired. Sweat drips from his hair onto the bag where he’s putting away his soaked-through t-shirt. He’s in the process of pulling on a new one when he hears a heavy body hit the bench beside him. When his head peeks out from the shirt he sees it’s Jimmy who sat down next to him. He looks worn-out too.

“Fucking hell,” Jimmy pants, thumbing at his lip. It’s bruised but not split. “Akiyo is a fucking menace.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve says even though he’s never boxed with her. He’s gotten thrown around by Irina enough to know what he means though. “I just boxed with Irina and I think she’s going to sprain her wrists what with how much she holds back with me. If she went for it, she could wipe the floor with me, change me into a rag permanently. We wouldn’t need brooms and mops at all anymore.”

Jimmy laughs and shakes his head. “They’re the worst,” he says, but it’s with admiration in his voice. They fall silent and Jimmy starts unlacing his boxing boots, breathing heavily.

Steve doesn’t know where he gets the courage, doesn’t even know what gets into him to breach the subject, but he’s been feeling off-kilter for days, his head buzzing with Bucky’s words and his heart churning with emotions, so maybe this is a way to distract himself, maybe it’s a way to escape the very real possibility that’s been offered to him, but he just can’t accept because Bucky’s fucking _not_ in love with him. Bucky’s confused. And ok, maybe he’s a little bit attracted to Steve, but it’s nowhere near the thing Steve’s felt for him for years and Steve simply can’t fall for it and then watch him figure out it’s nothing but a misplaced crush.

 _I’m in love with you._ The words Steve’s imagined hearing for years, not even necessarily from Bucky, from anyone, a pretty girl, a co-worker. I like you. I’m in love with you. Desperately wanting to be _wanted._ Who would have thought hearing them would frighten him so much.

Steve turns to Jimmy, anxious but determined. “Listen, Jimmy, I…” he takes a calming breath. “The thing we talked about a couple of weeks ago.”

Jimmy looks at him, eyes a bit guarded. He nods. He knows exactly what Steve means.

“Me and Bucky,” Steve’s really glad he’s already flushed from boxing or he would have given away just how awkward this conversation is for him. “We’re not really — like that. I wasn’t lying back then.”

Jimmy nods again, acknowledging that he was wrong, but lets Steve struggle on.

“But I was thinking, since you, you know, you’re also —” Steve thinks that his flush might be deepening anyway. He takes another breath and looks away from Jimmy’s penetrating eyes. “Basically, I was thinking if you maybe wanted to go for a beer after. Today. With me.”

Steve is no fool, he knows Jimmy wouldn’t be opposed to it. After Jimmy told him he was queer, Steve’s been more attentive. He’s caught him looking more than a handful of times. And Jimmy never shied away from his gaze.

“Well,” Jimmy says after a pause. “This does come as a bit of a surprise. I got the distinct feeling that you didn’t much care for me.” His smile is wry when he says it.

It’s true. Steve hasn’t really thought about it if he’s honest. Still. Doesn’t mean he can’t start thinking about it. Slowly, he says, “Maybe I could start caring.” He lets his voice drop, heavy with meaning. “There’s a lot to care about, after all.”

Steve didn’t know he could ever be this bold, but here he is flirting all while giving Jimmy an appraising look. Jimmy is handsome. And fit. And Steve might just be desperate enough to not care that he’s absolutely dreadful when it comes to — well anything to do with this really.

Jimmy searches his face, then runs his eyes down Steve’s body and there’s no mistaking the appreciation in his eyes. Steve’s cheeks heat up further, but he can’t deny it feels good, being so bluntly appreciated.

“Okay.” Jimmy nods, a small smile on his face. “Okay then, Steve. I’ll go shower and then we’ll go grab a beer.”

Jimmy stands up, pulls off his shirt, not hiding the pleased smile he sends Steve when he sees Steve avert his gaze nervously, and heads to the showers. Steve stands by the bench dumbly, wondering how bad it is if he skips the shower himself. He decides Jimmy’s used to the smell of a stinking gym and won’t notice, or care.

Bucky comes out of nowhere and throws his bag on the bench next to him, making Steve jump. He takes Jimmy’s spot on the bench, sweaty and exhausted too. There’s a pleased smile on his face. He wipes his brow. “I just beat the hell out of Rico.” He turns away, looking towards the ring, and calls out. “Right Rico? I kicked your ass real good.”

Rico flips him off with both hands, but he’s laughing. “Beginner’s luck,” he calls back, even though he knows Bucky’s not a beginner.

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Bucky mutters to himself, but he’s smiling. “Say, Steve, Becca told me to invite you over for dinner. She’s chased Ma out of the kitchen and is trying a new recipe. And according to her, you’re the only one who appreciates her cooking experiments so she told me to tell you to come over.”

“Oh,” Steve is almost a bit disappointed that he’s invited Jimmy for a beer. Becca’s experiments always turn out amazing, even though everyone else complains the food is too spicy. “I can’t, really, sorry. I’m glad she thought of me though. Thank her for me, ok?”

“You can’t come?” Bucky frowns. “Oh, do you have an assignment for art class to hand in?”

“No, umm.” Steve doesn’t see why he should feel awkward telling Bucky but he does. “I’m actually going for a beer with Jimmy.”

That seems to stun Bucky into silence. Steve busies himself with changing his shorts and socks when Bucky finally stirs.

“A beer with Jimmy.” He sounds surprised and it annoys Steve more than he would care to admit. Bucky waits for a few beats, long enough for Steve to finish changing both socks, before he speaks again, this time quiet, careful. “He’s queer you know.”

“I know.” Steve doesn’t look at him when he says it. The ugly part of him, the one he doesn’t like to examine all too often, adds, “That’s kind of the point.”

“So it’s a date.” Bucky’s voice is flat. Steve doesn’t miss the twitch of the muscle in his cheek.

“I don’t know.” Steve shrugs as if it’s no big deal. It’s a very big deal. An honest to god date with someone who doesn’t seem opposed to touching him. “I mean, I guess.”

Bucky nods curtly and doesn’t say another word. Steve pretends not to notice the way his hands shake when he starts unwrapping the bands around his hands. For a second, Steve doubts that what he’s doing is right. What if he’s wrong? What if — and fuck he wants it so bad — Bucky and him... He shakes his head, chasing the thought away. He can’t lose him. Steve doesn’t know what he’d do if lost him. It’s better this way. For both of them.

*******

It’s Friday evening, and, despite the grumbling of a certain few, the boxing gym crew has switched their familiar environment of the gym for a dance hall. It’s Rico’s birthday, and he insisted they go celebrate it at the nearest hall, stretch their feet by dancing and strain their ears by listening to second-rate swing. The hall is dimly lit, the lights further veiled by a cloud of cigarette smoke hanging loosely in the air. The space is small, and the music reaches even the farthest end of the hall where Bucky stands leaning on the wall.

He doesn’t feel like dancing.

Bob, the loser that’s been skipping on training the past few weeks, is of course here for the party. He’s dancing with a chubby girl, but it’s obvious that she’s suffering. Bob couldn’t jump to tact much less dance to it. If Bucky was in the mood he’d save the poor girl from getting trod on and give her a good spin. Bucky’s not in the mood. He’s in _a_ mood alright, but not in the good kind. His eyes slide to Rico and Jack. The two of them are sauced out of their shoes already. Jack is insisting on showing Rico a dance move, but he’s swaying too hard to execute it.

Even Steve is — and Bucky can’t fucking believe it — dancing. He’s struggling through the quick pace with Irina, but she’s as patient as she’s been teaching him boxing. Not that she’s that good of a dancer either. Not as good as Akiyo, who has practically taken over the dancefloor with Jimmy. He twirls her, before bowing her back deeply, then, in the next few seconds, he has her in the air.

Jimmy’s a good guy. Strong, kind, a bit brash when he gets angry, but has a soft heart. He’s a nice guy. Handsome. Bucky hates him.

Unable to tear his eyes away from them, but also unable to watch them anymore, he closes his eyes for a second. He ends up keeping them closed for more than a minute. Right when he decides the only way he’ll survive the night is if he gets absolutely hammered, a voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Bucky Barnes!”

His eyes fly open.

“Maria,” he answers, surprised. Maria lives on the same street as him, but this dance hall is quite a way off from there. He gives her an easy smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I came with my friends. One of them lives here and we’re staying over at hers.” Maria waves at the group of girls a way off. Most of them pretend they weren’t looking, but one of them waves. A blond. Pretty. Bucky’s eyes slide to Steve involuntarily.

“What are you doing, standing here all sad?” Maria asks, her eyebrows going up. “You’re usually right in the middle of the dance floor, dancing until you can’t breathe anymore. I know, I’ve danced with you. You know how to wear a girl out.”

Bucky doesn’t mistake the way her voice drops when she says it, doesn’t mistake the way her eyes flash. Bucky’s kissed her once, but she was shy then, shook her head when he asked if she wanted something more. How the times change.

“Don’t feel much like dancing today,” Bucky tells her, laughing perfunctorily at her flirty comment.

“Not even if I invite you?” She tries her luck, but it’s easy, not really pressuring him and he’s grateful for that. Maria has known him for a long time and apparently knows him well enough to know he has prickly edges when in a mood.

“Sorry, Maria. Not today.” Bucky shakes his head. He offers her a smile to show that he’s sincere. “Thanks though.”

She leaves and Bucky decides it’s high time to get a drink. Or drinks. As many as he can down.

An hour later, Bucky wouldn't say he’s _terribly_ drunk, but he is glad for the unwavering support the bar is offering him nonetheless. His mood has improved slightly. Whoever said drowning your sorrows in alcohol didn’t help?

“Hey,” a soft voice comes from his right, when a skinny body slides against him.

Bucky knows that voice!

“Steve!” he exclaims. Too loudly. Okay, maybe he is kind of drunk.

Steve laughs. “Hey, Buck. You doing okay?”

Wow, Steve is pretty. He’s flushed with dancing. The freckles on his nose have practically gotten lost in the flushed skin, but Bucky knows where they are and can still find them.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing okay.” Bucky can tell his smile is a bit more lopsided than usual. Too much gin, maybe. Steve’s ordered beer. Maybe he should switch to that too.

Steve takes a sip. His lips are so red and they glisten with frothy foam when he takes the glass off them. His upper lip is so full. And his eyes are really, really blue. Even in the dim light, Bucky can tell they’re blue.

“You’re real pretty,” Bucky tells him, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them.

Steve chokes on his drink, glancing quickly around them to see if anyone heard. Bucky doesn’t give a single fuck. Steve wipes his mouth. Bucky misses the wetness that was there before.

“Uh,” Steve glances at Bucky. “Thanks.”

Bucky knows he doesn’t believe him. Why won’t Steve believe anything he says?

“You haven’t been dancing,” Steve states the obvious because Bucky’s gaze on him is heavy, the atmosphere thickening the longer they stay in silence.

“Haven’t felt like it,” is all Bucky offers in return, still unable to tear his drunken gaze off Steve’s form. His eyes roam, from Steve’s lips, down his chin, his neck, to his shoulders, thin, but square, to the clavicle exposed by his opened shirt. Bucky licks his lips. He’s being obvious, he knows. He also can’t stop.

“I’m...gonna head back.” Steve nods to the dance floor. His glass is only half-empty when he sets it down. “Can’t leave my dance partner waiting.”

Steve walks away and Bucky, gin still in hand, turns to watch his back. His chest twists, with want, with annoyance, with desire, with regret. He throws back what’s left of the gin, welcoming the burn. He sees a guy, a way over from where Steve stood by the bar moments before, looking at him. Bucky stares back. The guy’s lip twitches along with his mustache. His eyes flick to where Bucky’s eyes tracked Steve’s retreating back not long ago, then turns back to Bucky, giving him a dirty look.

“Fucking disgusting,” the man spits in Bucky’s direction.

Bucky doesn’t even flinch. He raises an eyebrow and salutes him with his empty glass.

The guy throws him another filthy look, sneering. “You freak,” he mutters under his breath, purposefully loud enough for Bucky to hear. He pushes away from the bar and leaves.

“Die,” Bucky offers to the empty space and orders another shot of gin because fuck beer and fuck sobriety.

*******

Bucky loses Steve at the party. He searches the dance hall with his eyes at least twenty times but doesn’t spy the familiar shape in the crowd. Sure, the floor is tilting a bit and the people simmer in front of his eyes in distinctly non-human shapes, but he’s sure he would have found Steve had he been there. Bucky’s eyes have always had a way of finding him wherever he was.

He makes his way to Steve’s apartment, the key Steve had given him clutched in his hand. Hoping that Steve’s home, he knocks but after no reply comes, he slips the key into the lock and lets himself in. The apartment is dark and Steve’s shoes aren’t by the door. Bucky checks the bedroom anyway. Steve’s not home. Bucky waddles to the couch, wobbly, avoiding a shelf sticking out of the wall. He settles on the flower-patterned couch. He’ll just wait for steve here, he thinks, curling into one corner and drifts off as soon as his eyes slip shut.

He wakes with a start and a gasp. Something’s shaking. _An earthquake?_ he panics before he registers a hand on his shoulder. His eyes focus on Steve’s silhouette above him. The light in the hallway is on, but the living room that blends into the kitchen at the other end is swathed in darkness.

“Buck,” Steve says. Who knows how many times he’s said it before Bucky woke up.

“Shit,” Bucky sits up. His vision swims and he has to grab Steve’s forearm to settle himself. He can’t have been asleep for long if he’s still drunk and it’s still dark outside.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks straightening. Bucky, who’s still holding onto Steve’s arm, lets his hand flop inelegantly onto his thigh.

“Where have you been?” Bucky poses his own question because Steve’s is stupid. What he’s doing there. Stupid. Looking for Steve of course.

Steve doesn’t answer. He puts some distance between them, walking to the wall to turn on the light. It blinds Bucky for a second. Why is light so much stronger in the night? Bucky stands up while Steve picks an apple from the narrow counter of his small kitchen biting into it. Bucky’s vision is slightly steadier than it was in the dance hall, alcohol having worn off a bit.

“Where you been, Steve?” he asks, a sense of foreboding twisting in his guts.

Steve takes another bite of the apple, avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

“With Jimmy,” he finally answers once the silence has stretched on for too long.

“With Jimmy,” Bucky repeats flatly. That’s probably why the inflection of the next sentence comes out so strong. “What the _fuck_ , Steve.”

Steve’s shoulders stiffen and his jaw twitches and Bucky fucking knows this means Steve is ready for a fight and he can’t do this, he can’t do this now. “What? Am I under arrest or something? Am I grounded, Bucky? I can’t hang out with people now?”

“What did you do?” Bucky feels like his chest is one giant deflating balloon, the air whizzing through the small holes Steve insists on poking into him.

“That’s really none of your business,” Steve informs him, jaw tense. There it goes. Another puncture in Bucky’s lungs.

Bucky steps closer, right into Steve’s space, the smell of the sweet apple hits him in the nostrils, an antithesis to the anger he feels. He’s so fucking — he’s so fucking jealous.

“He kiss you?” Bucky demands, voice rough. Steve turns his head away. Softer, Bucky says, “Tell me, Steve. Did he kiss you?”

A nod. Bucky exhales.

“What else?” Bucky doesn’t know why he tortures himself like this, but not knowing is almost worse.

Steve inhales, meets Bucky’s eyes briefly, blue on blue, before he moves them away again. “He sucked me off.”

“Fuck’s sake, Steve.” Bucky closes his eyes, lets his head fall forward. Steve’s hair brushes his forehead, they’re so close. “Why are you doing this to me?” Quietly, barely audibly, he adds, “You’re my best friend.”

“Exactly,” Steve agrees. He lifts one hand, gingerly places it on Bucky’s shoulder. “Exactly, Bucky. I’m your best friend, and you’re mine.”

“But that ain’t all, Steve.” Bucky is so tired. So, so tired. “That ain’t all we are.”

“It — we.” Steve’s hand spasms on Bucky’s shoulder, as if trying to tell what Steve’s mouth can’t. “What if it all goes sour?”

Bucky’s heart is pinned to his ribcage by Steve’s piercing eyes.

“What if it won’t?”

From the way Steve’s eyes get wet around the corners, involuntarily, Bucky knows his stupid, senseless resolve is crumbling. Steve quickly blinks the wetness away.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Steve’s voice is thick. Both from tiredness and emotions, Bucky guesses.

“Sure,” Bucky agrees. Some sleep will do him well too. He doesn’t step away from Steve yet, though. Steve’s hand, though looser, hasn’t left his shoulder yet either. A beat of silence passes between them, then Bucky whispers. “Can I kiss you anyway? Please?”

The sharp breath Steve lets out ghosts across his lips.

“Is it a good idea?” Steve’s brow furrows.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Bucky tells him with a soft smile.

“I’m serious, Bucky.” Steve sounds it. “Tell me. Tell me honestly.”

Bucky cups Steve’s face, lets his thumb trace along his cheekbone. “It is. It is. Honest.”

Steve closes his eyes, his lashes fanning against his cheeks. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Kiss me.”

Bucky does. It’s more a press of lips than a kiss at first. A hard, needy, half-frustrated press of lips, that gets softer, when he moves his mouth against Steve’s. Steve’s mouth is just as kissable as he imagined; soft and full and oh, so, so sweet. He tastes of beer, and something else. Jimmy, perhaps. And maybe Bucky’s truly off his rocker, but there’s something about being the second guy that’s kissed Steve tonight that turns him on. Something about knowing another pair of lips was pressed against Steve’s not hours ago that makes his groin tighten. Or maybe it’s that he’s the last person kissing Steve tonight. Maybe it’s the knowledge that Steve will go to sleep with the memory of _his_ mouth pressed to his lips.

*******

Steve wakes slowly, the memory of the previous night trickling in. They went dancing after the gym closed, they celebrated Rico’s birthday. Steve didn’t want to go, of course, but Irina promised to ‘badly dance’ together with him, so he went. One thing led to another and he left with Jimmy, excitement curling in his stomach. And then Jimmy sucked him off. It was quick and they did it in a bathroom stall of a queer pub. Steve barely reciprocated, only helping wank Jimmy off. It was hot and sticky and Steve kind of loved it. _He had gotten his dick sucked off._ And then, in the middle of the night, in his too-bright kitchen, a half-drunk Bucky kissed him. Bucky. Kissed him. Anxiousness and exhilaration shiver through Steve at the same time. God. He let Bucky kiss him. No. He _asked_ Bucky to kiss him.

He half wanted to ask him if he wanted to sleep in Steve’s bed too, like they’d done when they were little, but… it wasn’t the same now, was it? And Steve didn’t trust himself. Didn’t trust himself not to give in completely, recklessly, without a thought, give in and touch and kiss and take what he’d wanted for so fucking long.

The thought that he might get it was scarier even than the prospect of always loving in vain.

Another jolt of nervous energy sends him out of his bed and to the kitchen. He doesn’t think coffee is the best idea in the state he’s in, but coffee is familiar, so he puts the kettle on and tries to stop glancing at the door to the other — his childhood — bedroom where Bucky’s sleeping. Bucky doesn’t wake even after Steve’s finished his cup of coffee. As predicted, the caffeine doesn’t help his situation. He starts rummaging in the icebox to see if the milk is still good and if he could maybe make oatmeal with it instead of with water. Steve would never admit it, but he purposefully slams the icebox door and clangs the pots together loudly. He needs Bucky to wake up so they can get this over with because frankly Steve is frightened. Steve is frightened and he doesn’t have a tangible enemy to defeat like usually does; a bully, an asthma attack, pneumonia.

About half a minute later, he hears a door creak open. The racket he was making must have worked, judging by the pained groan that follows the sound of shuffling steps. Now that Bucky’s awake Steve is too afraid to look at him.

“Morning,” comes from a few paces behind him, followed by another groan. He hears Bucky gingerly pull out a kitchen chair, and fold himself onto it. A faint thud tells him he’s put his head on the table as well. “‘M fucking dying. My head’s killin’ me.”

Steve finally turns. Bucky’s in his undershirt and striped underwear shorts. His hair is in disarray, the pomade he used to style it the day before, forming strange waves in of his hair, making it stick up in weird places.

“Maybe you should learn how to tolerate alcohol then. Or, you know, lay off it,” Steve offers. He’s not overly sympathetic. They’ve had this conversation a number of times. Still, he fills a glass with water and a mug with leftover black coffee, even adding a splash of milk, which Bucky only has when he’s feeling especially indulgent, and sets it on the table next to the messy pile of hair.

Bucky lifts his head. For someone who’s so hungover, his face looks remarkably handsome. The luck some people have…

“Ohhhh,” Bucky sighs happily. “Thank you, Steve. My savior.” He sighs again, wrapping his hands around lukewarm coffee and breathing it in.

“You want some oats?” Steve asks.

Bucky makes a face. “Ew, food.” Seeming to reconsider, he says, “Okay, maybe yes. I’ll be fine after I drink some coffee. And then I’ll be hungry as hell.”

Steve knew that already, but he feels warmth pool into his chest at the confirmation. They know each other so well. It scares him, but it’s also...nice.

“So, Steve,” Bucky says after he’s had a few sips of coffee. Steve knows that tone. It’s Bucky steeling himself for A Talk with Steve. Usually, it’s something like Steve’s argument with the local bully, or his fake enlistment papers, but now it’s about a topic Steve can’t even fight on and it makes his heart pound. He hoped they’d wait with this until they’ve had some breakfast, but apparently Bucky’s awake enough to not want to wait.

Steve rummages in the cupboard looking for the oats. He swears he had some left.

“Mhm?” he answers, and, okay, maybe this is a bad avoidance tactic, but his heart is half-way into a heart attack, and he’s not — no one’s ever prepared him for this.

“What if it works?” Bucky doesn’t beat around the bush. Usually, Steve is the no-nonsense one.

“What if what works?” Okay, now Steve might be insulting his own intelligence. He sighs and turns around. Bucky’s giving him a desperate, one-eyebrowed look, clearly not buying Steve’s ignorance.

“Us. This.” Bucky waves between them anyway. More quietly, he adds, “What if we work?”

“Bucky, I don’t know.” Steve deflates against the counter. He tries to find some sort of tangible thing to hang his reluctance on. “You — listen, you haven’t even been able to stay in a relationship for more than three months. And I can’t — I _can’t_ do that.”

“None of them were you,” Bucky says it so sincerely, as if it truly means something. He stands up and Steve doesn’t think he will be able to tell him no if he steps closer. He doesn’t want to tell him no anymore. “Come on, Steve. What if it won’t? What if it won’t go sour?”

“Isn’t that even more scary?” Steve doesn’t know if he even wanted for Bucky to hear it, that’s how softly he said it.

But that’s what this is, isn’t it? Fear. Steve Rogers is afraid out of his mind. It’s not that Steve’s unfamiliar with fear; he feels it every time his chest starts feeling tight in the winter and his cough gets bad. He fears getting pneumonia, he fears long feverish nights, spent thinking — and he won’t ever tell anyone — about dying. About how he’s been on the verge so many times, his luck has surely run out. But the thing about Steve Rogers that even Steve Rogers himself forgot is that he _doesn’t_ give in to fear.

“What?” Bucky asks, confused when no further explanation comes from Steve. For a split second, the only thought in Steve’s swimming head is about how much he’s always wanted to run his fingers through the chest hair poking out at the top of Bucky’s undershirt.

“I don’t know.” Steve throws his hands up in the air, frustrated suddenly, frustrated at himself and at the jumble of feelings he can’t express. “I’ve —” he hates it, _hates it_ , that his voice breaks. “I’ve just… I’ve wanted you so long, Bucky. So _fucking_ long.”

Bucky steps even closer, and even worse, he’s reaching out, he’s touching Steve’s hair. “How long?”

“Jesus Christ. So long —” Steve shivers, from the memory or from Bucky’s tender fingers, he doesn’t know. He wants to swallow his words. He’s never wanted to say this out loud, ever. It’s too exposing, it makes him feel too raw. But it’s Bucky...it’s _Bucky_. “So long that I can’t imagine. I can’t imagine have —” Steve cuts himself off because, God, he’s not pathetic enough to say that out loud.

_I’ve wanted you for so long I can’t imagine having you._

“Since the first time you kissed Maggie on the playground,” Steve admits.

“Maggie?” Bucky looks confused.

“Your first kiss, Buck.” Isn’t it sad that Steve’s kept such good track of it.

“That —” Bucky’s hand drops from Steve’s hair onto his shoulder. “That was when we were eight.”

Steve exhales, nodding. “Yeah. Pathetic, I know.”

“Jeez.” Bucky runs a hand over his face, flinching back a little. “Jeez, Steve, why didn’t you tell me? All these years and you never told me.”

“You kept running off with girls and you were popular with them and…” Steve doesn’t think he really needs to explain himself because it’s obvious to him. First of, Bucky wasn’t into guys and second of, if he were he certainly wouldn’t be into _Steve_. “And honestly, Bucky, don’t make me into some sort of a martyr here. I was fine. I liked being your friend. I didn’t wallow in self-pity and cry myself into the pillow every night. You’re my best friend. That was enough. That _is_ enough, still, if you change your mind about...this.”

Bucky breathes a laugh, and Steve looks at those incredulous eyes. There are dark circles beneath them due to alcohol and lack of sleep. “When have I ever changed my mind about you, Steve?” Bucky’s hand is on Steve’s neck now, slowly undoing him with a mere circling of his thumb.

“You change your mind about me all the time!” Steve accuses. “One second I’m annoying, the other I’m a riot.” He has to lighten the mood because his heart is feeling quite raw already and he can’t just pour it out like Bucky does. He’s never been able to do that.

“Those two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Bucky huffs a laugh. “At least not when it comes to you.”

“Thanks,” Steve says dryly, but he’s smiling.

“Thing is,” Bucky apparently won’t drop it until they’ve poked at every emotion under the sun, “when I made up my mind that I wanted to be your friend, that’s never changed. It was you who kept pushing me away until you got it into your thick skull that I wasn’t going anywhere. You’ve always been about forever, one way or another. It’s you who’s never been able to deal with that.”

“I — Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. Bucky’s right. He’s right. Steve’s always been so sure that he’ll be alone. Alone like his ma had been, alone and strong and able to handle everything. And he didn’t _need_ people. But he sure wanted them, wanted one of them at least. “I hate it when you’re right,” Steve ends up saying.

The winning smile that lights up Bucky’s face reaches right into Steve’s heart. “So that’s a yes?”

Steve doesn’t precisely let go of the fear. There’s no punching his way out of it either, not this time. No, he doesn’t let go. He leans in. Embraces the risk, throws himself into the unknown. Instead of feeling like he’s falling, he feels like he’s uncurling his wings to soar.

“What am I saying yes to, exactly?” Steve asks because he doesn’t really know. Are they going to just...be together? That sounds almost too easy, too normal to be true.

“Me,” Bucky answers with a cheeky grin.

_Yes, yes, goddamnit, Bucky Barnes, I will always say yes to you._

“I already can’t get rid of you,” Steve grumbles, but the way his face does some sort of happy dance contradicts his grumpy words.

Bucky continues to look at him, a brilliant smile curling his curvy lips. He moves his hand from Steve’s neck to trace his brow, tuck back his hair. The other hand keeps gripping Steve’s upper arm as if he’s afraid Steve will change his mind and flee. He doesn’t need to though. Steve has wings and he’s not afraid of falling.

“Just don’t ask me if you can kiss me this time,” Steve warns him. They might have had a heart-to-heart of the century, but he hasn’t missed the terrible breath coming out of Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky laughs and this time Steve feels it right in his bones. “Not a chance, pal. It’s not just _my_ breath that smells of sewage.”

Steve, despite his better judgment, closes the distance between them and kisses Bucky, open-mouthed, right on his reeking mouth. He pulls away just as quickly and is pleased to notice Bucky’s cheeks are beginning to color red. Who would have known a guy could make Bucky Barnes blush.

“It won’t be easy,” Steve feels the need to warn Bucky one last time.

“Punk.” Bucky flicks his ear then bends down to press his lips to Steve’s forehead, pulling him in. Bucky breathes into his hair, “When’s anything ever been easy with you?”

Steve smacks his chest half-heartedly, but pulls Bucky him closer, holding him tight. They both smell, but that’s okay. They’re two guys in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'll post the smutty, banterous epilogue tomorrow! It's basically done, but needs some polishing.
> 
> If you like the fic, you can reblog [**this post**](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/post/613939169372356608/fic-right-hook%22%22) on Tumblr.
> 
> A big thank you to my friend [**whiskyandwildflowers**](https://whiskyandwildflowers.tumblr.com/) for her help with the moodboard! I never would have known about Seb's perfect boxing photoshoot otherwise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, which is an epilogue, really, has smut in it, so if anyone doesn't want to read it, finish the fic here, or just read the banter before the smut haha

_**Epilogue** _

_\- Four months later -_

It’s a warm autumn evening, the kind that’s not sticky anymore, but still pleasant enough that Bucky and Steve only don their undershirts before stepping out of Ivan’s Gym. The sun has already set and dusk is slowly taking over as they make their way to Steve’s apartment. Bucky kicks a rock on his path, watching it scuttle along the sidewalk, and laughs — at nothing really — he just laughs because he’s pleasantly tired, and his armpits are still sweating from the training, even though they both took a shower, and his best pal is by his side and he loves him. He loves him so fucking much.

“What are you laughing about?” Steve hits him with his gym bag playfully.

Bucky looks at him, holds his gaze. He knows what Steve sees on his face; stupidly glowing eyes and a soft smile that tells too much. Bucky throws his arm around Steve’s shoulder and tilts his head up at the darkening sky. “Just counting my blessings, pal. Just counting my blessings.”

They pass a father with three children trailing behind, two of them pushing each other, and the other one talking the dad’s ear off. Bucky shakes Steve in his grip, marveling at how he can simply sling his arm around him, ruffle his hair, and _no one knows_. Most people on their block, when they see them together, smile, roll their eyes and mutter, "Barnes and Rogers, those troublemakers." And none of them _know_.

“Oh, yeah?” Steve counters, trying to be smart, but he can’t hide the pleased curl of his lips. “You counting me in then?”

Bucky laughs again. “Top of the list, Stevie, top of the list.” He can’t help but ruffle Steve’s hair; something Steve has hated since the first time Bucky did it, and something Bucky’s never stopped doing despite it. Or because of it. Steve mutters something and smacks the back of Bucky’s head, but it’s too fond for Bucky to take him seriously.

They pass a bar which is just filling up for the night. Three men are milling in front of it, probably waiting for another friend. Two of them nod when they cross paths, tilting their hats. Who said New Yorkers were assholes? Bucky politely nods back.

 _None_ of these people know. They don’t know that when Bucky spends the night at Steve’s, they pull the curtains closed tight, they take the mattress off the creaking bed, put it on the floor and Steve, it’s always Steve who looks at him with hooded eyes, full of desire, and Bucky gives in, would have given in, up, away, everything, for the bliss that comes — holding Steve in his arms.

In a way it’s sad that Bucky can’t tell anyone. Steve deserves to be loved loudly, publicly, obviously. Bucky wants to tell everyone about his sweetheart, how he hates washing the dishes but hates cooking more, how he mutters like an old witch speaking a curse while reading newspaper headlines, how he laughed to tears at mass two Sundays ago when Mr Banks, who’s deaf on one ear, swore loudly right during Holy Father when his wife’s purse tumbled to the ground.

But it’s also exciting. A precious secret that he cradles close to his heart; knowing how sweet Steve’s mouth is, knowing what his skin feels like under his hands, knowing what it’s like to open him up with his fingers, honey-sweet and slow on lazy Sunday mornings, and insistent and impatient when they come in after a day spent outside, unable to touch.

Being the only one who knows how Steve unravels when he lets go. A small guy like that, always so tense and pent up, ready for a fight — unfolding. It’s been a learning curve for the both of them, but Bucky’s figured out how to touch him, how Steve melts when he’s treated right. He knows how Steve kisses, fierce at the most unexpected times, and gentle, like Bucky will break (and he does, he does, he breaks so easily) when Bucky’s least prepared for it.

Sweet bliss, being the only one to know how he loves.

Before Bucky knows, they make it to Steve’s apartment building. Steve fishes out his keys, the front door closed in the evenings too (until someone breaks the lock again that is).

“You gonna invite me in, Rogers?” Bucky puts on a fake-shy face like he’d seen girls do, the fierce ones who played coy, knowing exactly how cute they looked when they pretended to bat their lashes nervously, but the smile on their lips stayed wicked.

“Like you don’t already practically live here,” Steve says offhand, and in the next breath, curses the keys that get stuck in the lock. Bucky’s disappointed that his performance is going unnoticed.

“Excuse you, but I’m an honest dame,” Bucky doesn’t drop the game.

“Yeah, yeah, honestly a virgin for the hundred and fiftieth time.” Steve’s distracted reply comes, when the lock finally clicks and the door slides open. He glances at Bucky over his shoulder.

Bucky gasps, and clutches a hand to his chest. “One would think a man like you would’a defended a woman’s honor.” He bats his eyelashes some more. “Everyone knows it’s only the hundred and fifty-first time that counts, anyway.”

Steve laughs, but there’s that tell-tale flicker of desire in his eyes that uncurls something in Bucky’s stomach. “You’re terrible,” Steve tells him. “Annoying, horrible.”

The way his mouth softens at the corners, and his permanent frown practically disappears says otherwise.

Bucky pretends to flip his hair over his shoulder. “Yes, dreadful, uncontrollable, terrible little lady.” He drops the pretense, glances around quickly and leans in, right into Steve’s space, pressing his lips to Steve’s ear. Steve smells of fresh sweat, and the sweetest sin Bucky’s ever tasted. “And yet…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, lets it drop, suggestion strong in the air when he pulls away, eyes heavy with promise. Steve’s mouth is open and he needs a moment to collect himself. When he does, he grips Bucky’s upper arm and pull-pushes him through the door.

“Fucking get your ass inside, Jesus help me,” Steve mutters, voice so low Bucky feels it somewhere in his sternum.

“Enjoying the view?” Buck throws back with a sly grin when he climbs the steps in front of Steve.

Steve doesn’t say anything until they come to his door. He unlocks it, smoothly this time, and looks at Bucky from beneath his long eyelashes. “Better than the first time I saw the Statue of Liberty up close.”

“Aww, shucks, Rogers, you telling me I have a better ass than New York’s most famous lady?”

Instead of opening the door, Steve suddenly turns, stepping into Bucky’s space, crowding him against the doorframe he was hovering by. The hallway is dark, only one light bulb right at the end still working. Bucky inhales the dusty, musky scent of old floorboards when Steve’s body presses against his.

“Anyone ever tell you you talk too much, Barnes?” His voice is low, so much promise in it that Bucky’s dick stirs.

Just as fast, Steve steps away, opens the door and steps inside. Bucky gathers his wits, entering behind him. He doesn’t even give Steve the time to breathe. He pushes the creaking door closed and then it’s his hand on the top of Steve’s chest, fingers brushing his neck, as he pushes him against the wood.

Bucky’s heart is hammering in his chest. How quickly, how easily it gives up any sense of rhythm when Steve is near. The only consolation is that Steve’s heart is beating marathon-fast too. He presses Steve into the door, hard, putting the whole weight of his body behind it because he knows Steve can not only take it, Steve fucking _loves_ it. Bucky drops his mouth to Steve’s ear when he hears Steve’s sharp inhale, feels the way Steve’s hips already want to move. He presses his thigh between Steve’s legs and finds just what he thought he would.

“Oh, please,” Bucky shifts his leg, satisfied at how Steve’s adam’s apple bobs, “like me mouthing off doesn’t get you off, Rogers.”

“Would get me off faster if your mouth was doing something else,” Steve’s eyes flash and he tries to give Bucky a smart grin, but they’re both too pent up for it.

Bucky traces his thumb down Steve’s jaw, across his bottom lip. So fucking pretty. The aggressive intensity between them slips away for a moment, replaced by softness, the burning desire chased away by tender yearning.

“That what you want, Stevie?” Bucky whispers against Steve’s lips. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but kisses him, both their mouths opening instantly, folding into a familiarity Bucky will never tire of. When they break away, Bucky presses his forehead against Steve’s. “Jesus.Things you make me feel.”

“Buck...” Steve’s voice trails off, as his hands spasm around Bucky’s ribs. Bucky knows it’s hard for Steve to handle the truth said so starkly in his face, hard to _believe it_. It’s even harder for him to say it back, his voice always breaking from emotion, but Bucky knows he feels it too, knows in the way Steve’s hands slide down Bucky’s side, up his back. Bucky’s never felt precious. He feels precious in Steve’s arms.

“You want my mouth on your dick?” He whispers against Steve’s lips then pulls back fixing his eyes on him. “That what you want, Stevie? That what makes you hot?” Bucky asks, without shame. No fucking shame because he loves sucking Steve’s cock and he loves it even more when Steve tells him —

“Yes.”

The blue, the fucking blue of Steve’s eyes that Bucky will remember for the rest of his life, always chasing that shade wherever he went, crackles. Steve’s gaze is hot, weighted.

“Yeah, I fucking want it. Yeah, it makes me hot.” There’s something about Steve saying it, agreeing to it, that makes Bucky shiver all over. “Your mouth. Jeez, your mouth, Buck.”

Steve inches in for a kiss, but Bucky turns to meet the corner of his lips. He traces his teeth over Steve’s jaw, slowly, feeling the faint stubble there, knowing that he’s scratching Steve’s chin with his own. He slides his hand around Steve’s neck, thumbing at the furious pulse there, only for a second, and then with a final bite to Steve’s jaw that draws a gasp, promptly drops to his knees.

Bucky loves this, he loves this so much, illogically perhaps. Loves mouthing at Steve through his trousers, loves how Steve can’t keep his hips still, loves how Steve’s hands slide into Bucky’s hair gently. Loves that their grip will become almost painful when Steve loses control. Loves that when Bucky’s on his knees, opening up Steve’s fly, pulling down his underwear, nuzzling the base of Steve’s cock, mouthing at the root, dragging it out, Steve starts to beg.

“Bucky, please, get on with it, fuck’s sake.” And swear.

Steve’s hips lift off from the door, impatient. Bucky runs his thumb over the slit of Steve’s cock and slides his lips — barely, barely touching — along the length.

“Fucking,” Steve exhales in frustration, “hate yo— ahh!”

One of Steve’s hands grips Bucky’s shoulder when Bucky without warning, finally swallows him whole. His mind flits back to that night when he came to Steve’s, a bit tipsy, but not nearly as drunk as Steve thought he was, and draped himself over Steve, interrupting his crossword solving. He didn’t know what to do back then. What does one do when they figure out they want their best friend in a way that’s so different from how he always thought of him. How does one tell him he wants to kiss him, suck him off, do… all the unspeakable things to him.

Bucky remembers lying with his head on Steve’s lap, alcohol erasing any filter between his brain and mouth and saying, “You got a dick.” Remembers wanting to touch Steve, remembers staring at the waistband of Steve’s pants, thinking about how it would be to touch his lips to Steve’s stomach, slide them down, take him into his mouth. It was new and curious and frightening.

It’s no longer new or frightening, but it never stops being curious. Bucky marvels at the way Steve’s whole body twitches when he takes just the tip in his mouth and sucks hard. He’s in awe with how Steve’s fingers find his cheeks, how his thumb runs along the edge of Bucky’s mouth stretched around Steve’s dick. He’s surprised, all over again, by the way hollowing out his cheeks and looking Steve right in the eye, makes Steve’s head bang back against the nearest surface, muttered curses, mixed with pleas, falling from his mouth.

Bucky pulls back with a long lick to the underside, long enough to say, “Still hate me?” His voice is getting hoarse already, and he loves it, loves it, loves it way too much.

“No, no” Steve shakes his head. His eyes are clouded, unfocused. “You’re the best, the most — ah — wonderful, my favori— ”

Bucky takes him into his mouth again, Steve’s cock slick and shiny with his spit. It makes him crazy, seeing Steve like this. Bucky can’t wait anymore. There’s no way he could hold himself back, not when he’s so turned on that his pants are painful around his hard on. He swallows Steve down as far as he can. It’s all the way. Bucky’s proud that it’s all the way, even though Steve’s dick isn’t big. So, Bucky swallows him to the root, and holds still while his breath rushes hot and heavy out of his nose. It makes him go mad, feeling Steve at the back of his mouth, in his throat.

He pushes his hand down his own pants, grabbing himself. He can’t wait, not when Steve groans like that, not when Bucky has to pull his mouth back before he gets dizzy, blood rushing, and all he can think is how annoying these biological needs are when all he wants is to have Steve as far in his mouth as he can.

“Steve.” Bucky grips Steve’s hip tight with the hand that’s not busy palming himself in his pants. “Steve, come on, come on.”

Bucky places his tongue under the tip and opens his mouth. They’ve done this enough times for Steve to know what Bucky wants. It’s not always like this and they’ve had to learn, are learning still, where their limits are, when to ask for something and when to take it. And so Bucky asks, lets Steve know, _it’s okay, I want this, take it, take what you want._

“Oh, shit.” Steve slides both hands into Bucky’s hair, just as Bucky flicks his tongue over the slit and opens his mouth further. “Jesus, Bucky,” Steve says on a stuttering breath before he drives his cock into Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky’s eyes water and his throat protests, but he flattens his tongue and invites Steve in, feels the drag of Steve’s dick against the walls of his mouth as he pulls out before thrusting back in. Bucky’s knees already ache and he’s starting to feel the tightness of his jaw, but it’s exactly that burn, the desperation of it that makes him work his dick furiously with his hand, holding Steve’s hip in a bruising grip for leverage.

Steve’s fingers in his hair curl, pulling every which way he wants, and Bucky loses himself. There’s something about the way Steve goes wild, something about the way the fight that he carries with him every day, the fight that defines him, becomes focused on one thing and one thing only. Taking what he wants.

Steve fucks Bucky’s mouth with single-minded abandon, hips thrusting, hands pulling, while he tries to quieten his moans by biting his lip. Bucky wishes they could be as loud as they wanted to be. He wants to hear what Steve sounds like when he opens his mouth, throws his head back and moans without a second thought as to who might be listening.

“Bucky, Buck.”Short nails scrape hard against Bucky’s scalp as Steve’s rhythm falters. Bucky looks up because there’s no way in hell he’s missing this. It’s his favorite part, the way Steve’s hips halt before he pushes as far as he can into Bucky’s mouth — throat, really — where they halt again, his whole body tense like a string and then — then he softens, melts, sags when he comes down Bucky’s throat.

Bucky tries to swallow, but he’s breathing too hard, too pent up, too focused on his own pleasure, on the satisfying knot of heat in his groin. He lets Steve’s softening dick slip out of his mouth. A few drops of come dribble to his chin, but he doesn’t care. He leans forward, pressing his face into Steve’s hip, and tightens his fist.

After a few seconds, Steve regains his wits. “No,” he mumbles, pulling at Bucky’s hair. “No, no, no. _‘M_ gonna...” he pushes at Bucky’s shoulder, but it’s too weak.

“I can’t, Steve,” Bucky moans into the fabric of Steve’s half-opened trousers, twisting his hand in the way he loves the most, he fucks into his fist, frantic. “Can’t — wait.”

He bites into the cotton of Steve’s undershirt that is bunched-up conveniently by his mouth and shudders. Just like that, crumpled against Steve, he comes in his underwear, all over his hand.

Steve’s hands are in his hair again, sliding in and out of the slightly wet curls tenderly. He trails his fingers down Bucky’s neck, the top of his shoulders, his jaw, and lets Bucky recover slowly. Bucky stirs but doesn’t move away, only leaning harder into Steve’s touch.

“ _I_ wanted to do that,” Steve tells him, amusement in his tone. “Thought I’d return the favor.”

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles, hoping Steve understands despite the sound getting smothered by the fabric. “Couldn’t wait. Torture.”

“Torture, huh?” Steve laughs. “Giving me a suck job’s got you so hot you can’t even wait your turn.”

“Mmm,” Bucky eloquently responds and swats at Steve’s thigh.

Carefully, Steve leans back and slides down against the door, making sure Bucky doesn’t fall to the side. Once he’s braced against the wall, Bucky falls anyway, but it’s against Steve, squashing him further back as Bucky nuzzles at his neck. Steve puts his hand under Bucky’s jaw and lifts his head. Steve’s cheeks are flushed and his mouth is red and wet. Bucky can only imagine what kind of a state _he’s_ in. He leans forward, kissing Steve, hoping that Steve can taste himself on his tongue. When their breathing gets hard again, Bucky drops his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“We just gonna stay here?” Steve asks.

“Mhm.” Bucky nods against the bony sternum, even though his limbs protest pressed against the hard floor as they are.

“Okay, for a little while,” Steve concedes. “But only because it’s you.”

“Because you looove meeee,” Bucky says in a sing-song voice, smiling like a fool.

Bucky can practically hear Steve roll his eyes through his laugh. “Lord help me, but I do.” Steve bends to kiss the crown of Bucky’s head. Quietly, he adds “So much, James Buchanan Barnes. So fucking much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic, I know a lot of you are suckers for pre-war Stucky just like I am. Hopefully, this fic satisfied some of that need. 
> 
> If you liked it, you can reblog [**this post**](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/post/613939169372356608/fic-right-hook%22%22) on Tumblr. A big thank you to my friend [**whiskyandwildflowers**](https://whiskyandwildflowers.tumblr.com/) for her help with the moodboard! I never would have known about Seb's perfect boxing photoshoot otherwise. 
> 
> I also made this [**inspo image set**](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/post/614397108039106560/steve-huffs-and-in-a-split-moment-of-inspiration) if you want some visual 1940s vibes 
> 
> I love hearing your thoughts so leave a comment or [**find me on Tumblr!**](https://synonym-for-life.tumblr.com/) Thanks, darlings! <3


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